


Fish Bowl

by fragilecreature



Series: Rolling Snake Eyes [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BOONE GETS RECOVERY TIME, Benny gets a redemption arc, Character Development, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, I swear, Past Abortion, Please give me a chance, Slow Burn, Smut, because you're going to go insane, check yourself into slow burn asylum, eventually, everyone gets what they deserve, lighthearted/funny banter, like really slow burn, long fic, not a broodfest, strong and prevalent themes of suicide, underage (past & noncon), well kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilecreature/pseuds/fragilecreature
Summary: Death can't seem to keep it's hold on the sixth courier, known only as Sloan. Yet it dogs her footsteps, leaving her never quite alive. After surviving death once again at the hands of a man in an ugly checkered coat, she can't remember what sent her to the harsh Mojave wasteland, hundreds of miles from home. But there are some things you can't forget.





	1. Look Alive, Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Important tags are there. Also, I work under the assumption that since the bombs fell after the true 1950's, the music of after would have still existed, with some changes.   
> Full disclosure behind the tags: sloan/vulpes will not happen again. The underage warning is for the past, and will not happen again, because no. It pertains to the fact that Legion start treating women especially horribly at fifteen. I would love if you all stay, but please be careful and mind the tags, I don't want to hurt anybody.  
> Also: I’m not looking to sensationalize or trivialize what happens in this story.
> 
> That said, this story is my child and I'm so excited to finally share it!

_We’re just two lost souls_

_Swimming in a fish bowl_

_Year after year_

_Running over the same old ground_

_And what have we found?_

_The same old fears_

_Wish you were here._

Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd

* * *

  

_Look alive, Sunshine_

_[Louder than God’s revolver and twice as shiny]_

My Chemical Romance

 

“You got what you were after. So pay up,” a male voice demanded.

She blinked- once. Twice. It was nighttime- hadn’t it been day?- and the cold that rolled in after sunset in the desert had settled in. Though the hard dirt she laid on now was cold, the last traces of warmth long gone.

 “You’re cryin’ in the rain, pally,” another voice answered, blowing the first voice off entirely.

 The second thing she noticed was that her hands were tied. No. _No, no, no,_ she thought frantically, twisting her hands with more than a little desperation. She had escaped, she had been _free._ Would they just kill her now, or-

 “Heh. Guess who’s waking up over here,” a third voice remarked, as if this was funny. Though maybe to him, it was. To each their own, she supposed. She had been the one smiling down the barrel more than once.

 Nonetheless, her head snapped up to see a total of three men surrounding her- two of them Great Khans. Despite herself, she sighed in relief. It could have been worse. Much, much worse.

 The third man was clearly a high-roller wearing a ridiculous, yet impeccable black and white checkered suit jacket, lazily smoking a cigarette. Only a high-roller could afford to keep such a flashy suit clean.

 The Khan on the right laughed a bit under his breath, tossing the shovel in his hands back and forth. A quick glance around revealed their location to be a graveyard. Nothing here was adding up to anything pretty, not for her.

 That was when the fear set in. There was no knifing her way out this one. Her hands and feet were tied like a brahmin for the slaughter, and the knife that had lived in her boot for almost a decade was glinting in the moonlight at the bottom of an empty grave. Waiting.

 But would it really be such a shame for it all to end here? Disappointing, maybe, but not necessarily a bad thing. What she had been doing wasn’t living, by any normal standards. Not since the fire. And really, it had probably all been stolen time anyway. A fluke in the system.

 She glanced down again at the knife she had once named Freedom, the closest thing she’d had to company in years. At least if she got her brains blown out hundreds of miles from home, she would die free. She looked to the stars and remembered the last time she had looked at them like this. Thinking she would die under them, committing the sight to a fleeting mind. Yes, at the very least, she would die free. She wouldn’t go to heaven, if such a thing existed, but she wouldn’t go to hell, wrongs and sins aside. She had served her time on earth.

 “Time to cash out,” the high-roller said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his heel.

 The Khan on the left rolled his eyes. “Would you get it over with?” Ass. He could at least give her the time of… well, night, in her last minutes. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to be in the middle of the night.

 The roller just held up a finger, and the Kahn reluctantly shut up. “Maybe Khans kill people without lookin’ ‘em in the face. But I ain’t a fink. Dig?” he said, looking over his shoulder as he stepped closer.

 And while it wasn’t aimed at her, old habits died hard. “I appreciate it, though I think the only thing meathead’s gonna be diggin’ is my grave. Fuck you, by the way.” Hey, it wasn’t like it was a _bad_ time to give it up.

 The roller laughed at that, pulling the goddamned poker chip out of his jacket. “I hate to kill you, honest, but you’ve made your last delivery, kid.” He put it back, as if afraid it would vanish, but unable to pass up the dramatics. “Sorry you got twisted up in this scene,” he continued, replacing the chip with a silver, engraved gun. Despite herself, her breathing clean stopped for a second. _Damn._ At least the thing was fancy. That kind of gun was a symbol, a reputation by itself, and probably worth a fortune. It was almost touching he was dirtying his good pistol with her blood and brains.

 He looked at the gun too, studying the side of it like it held some kind of answer. “From where you’re standing, it must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck.” He looked back at her, as if looking at it had cleared what was left of his sand-blasted conscience, almost smirking a bit. But the smirk faded as quickly as it had come as he raised the gun, replaced with an almost lecturing tone as he said, as if she should have known, “Truth is, the game was rigged from the start.”

 She barely had time to register the flash and deafening _BANG_ before it all went black.

 

 

A fan spun in earnest above her as she cracked open her eyes- and immediately groaned as it swam out of focus and a headache of epic proportions blasted its way through her head.

 “You’re awake,” someone said to her left, sounding surprised. “How ‘bout that.” She rolled onto her side, trying to see who had her now. “Woah. Easy there,” an elderly man said from a chair next to her, holding an arm out to try and stop her from moving. She jerked back out of his reach, sending a fresh wave of agony ripping that had her eyes watering, though she kept quiet.

 “Easy,” he repeated, withdrawing his hand, resting it on the thigh of his dusty pantleg instead. “You’ve been out cold a coupla days now. Why don’t you just relax a second? Get your bearings,” he added, noticing her probably wild eyes. She felt wild. “Let’s see what the damage is. When you’re ready.” True to his word, he sat back in his chair and waited, letting her take in her surroundings.

 She was on a relatively clean but stained mattress in what looked to be a medical station. A gurney sat behind him and there was a table piled high with stimpacks, rolls of bandages, and bottles of antivenom. Which probably made the mustached man in front of her a doctor. A damn fine one too, if he could patch up a…

 She groaned. A bullet to the face. A bullet delivered by some guy in a butt-ugly jacket. She remembered something about a poker chip and a graveyard, but the events leading up to that… The last thing she could remember was fleeing west through the nomansland of the north nearly five years ago. Snow and mountains and frigid fingers. Yet wherever she was now was sweltering hot, sweat already beading on her forehead despite the fan rattling away above them.  

She looked again at the man. The doctor. The fact that she was unrestrained this time was a good enough sign. Unlike the man in the checkered suit, who had shot her. Who would pay, and with everything he had.

She glanced down. She was still in her usual rags and armor, down to her dirt-encrusted combat boots. Close by on the floor she saw her metal chestplate, the cocky, taunting words _nice try_ painted across the front.

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“So how about your name?” he asked.

She licked her dry lips for a second, thinking. Scraping the memory off the sides of the empty jar that was her head. “Sloan,” she said at last, though it came out as a raspy whisper. “Sloan,” she said again, louder this time and with more confidence.

“Huh. Can’t say it’s what I’d have picked for ‘ya, but if that’s your name, then that’s your name.” _Because it isn’t_ , the voice in her head muttered, though Sloan only frowned. Was that supposed to be an insult? She couldn’t think well past the pounding in her head, though it was fading fast.

“I’m Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings,” he said. _Goodsprings_. A flash of an old wooden sign- she had passed by the small town as the sun was setting, not bothering to look for a motel. It had been small affair, clearly usually left alone like half of the places she passed through, nothing of value to be had except vaguely chilled beer and sarsaparilla.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I had to go rootin’ around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out,” he said with a bit of a laugh, cutting off her thought. “I take pride in my needlework, but it might still be a mite… jarring. How’d I do?” he asked, handing her a mirror like it was a loaded gun he very well expected her to shoot him with.

It took her a half second to remember that the mirror was showing _her._ Tanned but pale skin, wavy sand-blonde hair, blue eyes that looked pissed and guarded, like razor blades frozen in ice. And of course, the dark red circle on her forehead above her right eyebrow and the size of a bullet. Four inch-long sutures radiated from the bloody epicenter, more dark red crusted around the tight laces.

“A week or two and a coupla stimpacks’ll get rid of the longer ones, but the point of impact ’s gonna scar. Sorry, kid.” And he did sound sorry. Doctors, she remembered, were of the type that actually gave half a damn about strangers, long as they weren’t tribal.

Sloan gave him a small, rusty smile. “It’s fine, doc. Thanks for patchin’ me up at all.”

He relaxed and waved off her thanks. “‘S what I do. C’mon, no sense keepin’ you in bed anymore. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.” He held his arms out in invitation, but didn’t try to touch her this time. She accepted and grasped his arm, and with a pained grunt, levered herself upright. She held onto both arms now while Doc Mitchell held onto her elbows, and then was hauling herself to her feet. Her vision swam as all the blood drained from her head, but when her vision cleared, she felt normal, if fatigued.

“Good,” he remarked, letting go as she found her feet. “Why don’t you walk down t’ the end of the room, by the doorway.” She took a step, and almost ate dirt before regaining her balance. “Take it slow, now. It ain’t a race,” he chided. Sloan threw him a dirty look and took a smaller, slower step. Another, and she began to remember the motions and rhythm to walking, Doc Mitchell braced to catch her all the while, until she was leaning against the doorway.

“Lookin’ good so far,” he said, giving her a smile that made his grey eyes twinkle. He strode back to the bed and picked up her discarded things, returning to hand them back to her. “Though after what you’ve been through, that’s great news. Well, we know your vitals are good,” he said, leading her into an adjacent room by a bracing hand on her elbow, “but that don’t mean that bullet didn’t leave you nuttier than a bighorner droppin’. What d’ya say you take a seat on my couch over there and answer a coupla questions? See if your dogs are still barkin’.” Her face crinkled in disgust at his initial analogy, but allowed herself to be led nonetheless before practically collapsing on the worn couch. After a moment’s deliberation, she kicked her boots up on the table. It felt normal, like something she’d do. She turned Freedom over in her hands.

 _Knife_ was understating Freedom. It _looked_ like a boxcutter, but it was huge. Fully extended, it was practically a machete. It was old, and the worn and scratched wood felt familiar under her touch, and had a way of making her feel grounded in her boots. Carved on the handle, was a single word. Each line of the letters was gouged deep in the wood, each slice etched with a shaking purpose and fury. Her last defense in the protection of her freedom.

Sloan leaned forward to strap Freedom back in its place around her ankle, the familiar weight like home.

“All right,” he said, taking the seat across from her. “I’m gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind.” She nodded. Considering what her memory was shaping up to be, it seemed like a good idea.

“Dog,” he began.

“Cat,” Sloan replied easily. This wasn't so bad.

“House.”

 _Snow gathered in the corners of the windowpane, the cold building up around the small cabin. She wasn’t too far up the mountains yet. It would be a few more days of walking up the winding switchbacks before she got to Roadhead._   _Undertaker snored loudly from his spot in front of the blazing fireplace._ “Shelter,” she answered with less ease, a sort of empty ache building in her chest.

“Night.”

 _The north star to her right, she scrambled over the hill. They would be tired, after five days. She was too, but she had desperation on her side._ Sloan tapped her fingers anxiously. “Cover.”

“Bandit.”

_“What have we got here boys?” The highwayman sneered._

_“Goddamn trouble. Get the fuck out of my way before I make you,” Sloan snapped, even as her heart raced._ “Swiss fuckin’ cheese."

“Light.” _Fire, visible for miles. Too many miles. Above her, a new moon faded into the flurry of stars. For once in her miserable life, she had gotten lucky._

“Dark.” _But it was too dark, the fire a beacon in the pitch. She had to move. She couldn't afford to stop._

“Mother.” _She wouldn’t stop screaming. Abigail's cries echoed her mother’s as she thrashed and bit and wailed, trying to see her mother through the red. Trying to see her, despite the atrocities between them. She wished she would stop screaming._

Sloan clenched the chestplate in her lap until her knuckles went white. _Everything else had been stamped out to make room for the fear. Fear that kept her alive, that sent her west alone._ “Regret.” 

Thankfully, Doc Mitchell didn’t react to that, or to any of her other responses. She wouldn’t have been able to elaborate. It was the most she had thought of that time in years.

“Okay. Now I’ve got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you’d say,” he instructed, no sign of judgement on his face, only consideration of her state. “First one,” he said, glancing down at his clipboard. “‘Conflict just ain’t in my nature.’”

Sloan snorted. “Nope.”

His pen scratched across the paper. “‘I ain’t given to relyin’ on others for support.’”

“Is this a game of never have I ever?” He just looked at her for a long moment looking nonplussed. Sloan rolled her eyes and relented. “Say it every day. Next.”

“‘I’m always fixin’ to be the center of attention,’” he continued, shooting her a skeptical look.

“I need attention as much as I need a hole in the head. Pun intended,” she added dryly.

Doc Mitchell smirked. “‘I’m slow to embrace new ideas.’”

“I’m a reasonable gal, but cannibalism is a no go. So it depends,” she replied with a shrug.

“‘I charge in to deal with my problems head on.’”

“Sure. Though my ‘problems’ usually leave with a head off,” she answered with a smirk.

He didn't even blink. “Almost done here,” he said, replacing his clipboard with a short stack of paper from the small table next to him and placing it on an old music stand to his left. It was one of those inkblot pictures, to see if you were nuts. “What do you say you have a look at this? Tell me what you see.”

She looked at it for a few seconds, then pressed her lips into a thin line. “A broken chain.” It came out quieter than she meant it to.

He peeled it away to show another, his eyes soft. “Okay. What about this one?”

“I hate these,” she muttered. “A ship at sea.”

“Last one,” he promised, revealing the final sheet.

She frowned at it for a long moment before it formed a shape. “A head on a pillow, I guess.”

Doc Mitchell nodded a bit. “Well, that’s all she wrote. That’s pretty normal, though. We can safely say you brain is intact, and you haven’t split your rocker for firewood,” he concluded, standing up once more. “All right. I guess that about does it. Come with me, I’ll see you out. You’re due for some fresh air.”

It was easier to get to her feet this time and follow him to the door.

When she stopped next to him, he lifted a duffel bag off the coat stand by the door. “Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in,” he explained as she frowned at the bag. “The shotgun by the door, too.”

Inside the pack was a handful of stimpacks, a pouch of Rad-X, a suture kit, a few cans of food and water, and various odds and ends. But it was mostly boxes and boxes of ammo, along with a .357 Magnum revolver, a .49 pistol, extra knives, and a handful of grenades with their pins tied down.

On the top of the pile was a vaguely familiar folded piece of paper. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gave the note a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin,” he added, putting his hands up defensively when she shot him a sharp glare.

“There ain’t none,” she snapped.

“Well. It was just something about a platinum chip,” he said, skirting around her comment like a gecko from a grenade. He turned to slide a weird piece of tech from another hook on the coat stand. “Well, if you’re heading back out there, you ought to have this. They call it a Pip-Boy, straps onto your arm. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war; we all had one. Ain’t much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you’ve been through. I know what it’s like, having something taken from you,” Doc Mitchell confessed, slightly quieter. “It’ll help you keep things straight, and has maps. You’re in one piece, but parts of you might be a bit scrambled. Take it easy, kid. You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She’ll help- or rather, _remind_ you to fend for yourself out there. She’ll likely be at the saloon- no missin’ it. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your early grave. And see if you can’t get some new armor. It’s too damned hot out for that metal monstrosity," he said, looking pointedly at her breastplate. 

He was right. It was a solid inch of steel; it wasn't exactly in the kit for midday desert shenanigans. Sloan tucked it into her bag with the rest of her crap. The whole _nice try_ bit seemed a bit insensitive. 

"Anyways, you ever get hurt out there or that brain ‘a yours starts givin’ you trouble, you come right back. I’ll fix you up. But try not to get killed anymore,” the doctor ordered, sounding exasperated.

Sloan gave him a _what-can-you-do_ half grin, pulled on her pack, and scooped up her shotgun before walking out the door and into the Mojave.

If she thought Doc Mitchell’s home was hot, this was unholy. The setting sun said it was probably three in the afternoon- the desert’s worst.

Speaking of the desert’s worst, she looked down at the shotgun in her hands. Typically used for the homicidal wildlife of irradiated nature, she had a feeling it would be seeing a different brand of blood soon, if she had any say in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S., I have 2 playlists for this fic on spotify under shattermatters. (with a period). Visit fishbowlfic.tumblr.com for updates! I'd love to hear from y'all!


	2. Arsonist's Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, y'all. I never thought more than like... five or ten people would look at my shit. Y'all are awesome.
> 
> PS, trigger warning for graphic(ish) descriptions of violence.

_When I was a child, I heard voices_

_Some would sing and some would scream_

_You'll soon find you have few choices_

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

_Don't you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep them on a leash_

Hozier

The sun beat down with desert brutality, heat waves rippling in the air above the dusty soil. Sloan shaded her eyes against the glare, squinting into the whited out shape of Goodsprings. To the her right were a handful of houses clustered in the valley the town resided in, each with small, square plots of land to grow crops. To her left was an old Pre-War gas station, a general store, and a neon sign proclaiming the Prospector Saloon Doc Mitchell had guided her towards, as easy to find as he had said.

Sloan scowled at the sun. She usually had her scarf looped around her head, shielding her from the brunt of it.

Her scarf. How could she forget? The threadbare scrap was easily her most treasured possession, apart from Freedom. It was the only thing she had from home, from the East.

Sloan slung her shotgun onto her shoulder by its strap and barged back into the doctor’s house. He hadn’t even left the hallway yet, and turned to her with concern and confusion on his face. “Need something?”

“My scarf. It’s an ugly gray thing. Where is it?” she asked, her words tumbling out fast.

Doc Mitchell sighed. “Sorry, kid. I tried to wash the blood out, and it fell apart in my hands.” He looked guiltily at her, waiting.

Something in her dropped, and a strange sense of emptiness washed in where it had been. Her time in the East, everything she had survived and left behind and sacraficed had no evidence to prove it ever existed, the soul of the thing bodiless.

She touched a hand to her forearm. No, there was still evidence, as there would always be. But the loss of her scarf actually lended a welcome sort of distance, a sense of times past and parted with.

“It’s… fine,” she said slowly, unsure of her words. “I just… haven’t been without it for years. It was probably for the best,” she added, though it lacked conviction.

The doctor frowned at her doubtfully. “Alright,” he answered with equal slowness.

Sloan tapped her fingers along the taut strap of her shotgun. “Yeah. I’ll, uh… I’ll go.” And then she was back out the door, gone as quickly she had come. It felt like such a loss should have taken longer, instead of one panicked minute. For the second time that day, she felt as if she had lost something important to the man in the checkered coat. The man who would pay, as sure as rain. And that was the thing about the desert, Sloan supposed. When it rained, it poured.

Down the steep slope from Doc Mitchell’s house, a large, clunky looking robot rolling by on one thick wheel caught her attention. It had to be Victor, the one Doc had said had pulled her out of her grave.

Shaking off her thoughts, she trotted down the hill to catch up with the robot.

“Hey! Victor!” she called after him. As soon as she spoke, the robot wheeled around to face her, the image of a cartoon cowboy on the screen that served as his face.

“Howdy, pardner!” he greeted brightly in a thick Southern accent. “You’re looking mighty fine for about meetin’ your maker.” She could easily envision the jaunty smile the robot would have worn had he been human.

“I hear I have you to thank for the delay. I really appreciate it, man," she said awkwardly, scuffing at the dust with a toe. She wasn’t used to people doing things out of the goodness of their hearts. Though he _was_ a robot, she mused. It was probably just a part of his programming. “How did you even find me, anyhow?”

“I was out for a stroll that night when I heard the commotion up at the old bone orchard.” The gunshot, probably. “Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs, so I laid low,” Victor explained, gesturing behind her with a giant claw machine-like arm, likely pointing in the direction of the graveyard.

“Once they’d run off, I dug you up to see if you were still kickin’. Turns out you were, so I hauled you off to the doctor right quick.”

Sloan rubbed at the back of her bare neck. “So… thanks.” She kept herself from pointing out the fact that she owed him a life debt. Owing anybody anything wasn’t something she was keen on. “So, uh, I’ll see you around, then. Just wanted to say thanks.”

“No problem, pardner! Happy trails!” he said cheerily before continuing on his way.

She looked after him a moment. What a strange machine. Shrugging, she headed towards the saloon.

As she mounted the worn steps leading to the front doors, an old man with dark, leathery skin and a white beard opened one eye from his doze in a chair on the small porch. Sizing her up. From what she had seen of Goodsprings, it wasn’t an especially open town; you lived there or you kept walking. That said, she was an outsider, yet to prove what kind of person she was to the town.

Sloan nodded stiltedly at the man and slipped in the door, away from his unflinching gaze.

“Cheyenne, stay!” a young woman ordered her dog, which was growling like she desperately wanted to rip Sloan’s arm off. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite unless I tell her to,” she added, a playful, yet dangerous smirk on her pretty face.

Sloan frowned and reluctantly slipped her hand off of her shotgun, having jumped to it in her surprise.

“You usually guard the bar fuckin’ door?” Sloan asked nastily, even as she opened her duffel to fish out a can of spam for Cheyenne.

The woman crossed her deeply tanned, well-muscled arms, her leather armor creaking. “We ain’t much of a tourist town. Been having some tense words with a local gang, too. Reckon Cheyenne’s just on edge, same as the rest of us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sloan muttered, cracking open the can and dropping it to the floor. “Guess I can’t blame ya.” She didn’t particularly like strangers, either; she didn’t really have a leg to stand on, here.

“I take it you’re the one Doc Mitchell patched up?” she inquired. Cheyenne was eying the can mistrustfully, but edging forward nonetheless.

“More like resurrected,” Sloan answered, pushing the can forward with a toe and tapping the mark on her forehead. “Shot in the face. Your dog a vegetarian or something? Undertaker loved this stuff.”

The woman laughed. “Oh, hell no. We just mostly eat gecko ‘round these parts. New Vegas buys up most of the good stuff. I’m Sunny, by the way. Sunny Smiles.” The one the doctor had recommended she talk to.

Sloan took the hand Sunny offered, shaking it firmly through her leather glove. It was apparently a good enough signal for Cheyenne, who dug into the spam with albeit cautious relish. “Sloan. What’s a New Vegas?”

Sunny laughed. “Where. It’s a city where the rich wine, dine, and gamble. You can see it from a little ways out of the valley, actually. Big ol’ beacon,” she explained, nodding toward the door. “I gotta ask, though. Undertaker?”

The ghost of a fond smile found its way to Sloan’s face at the memory of the burly mutt. “Ol’ brute looked like a wolf. Mighta been, even. About tore my throat out like one before I gave him some of that spam. Followed me after that, helped hunt. Had a habit of always burying the bones.” She frowned suddenly. “Can’t remember what happened to the old fleabag, though.” The thought made her unexpectedly sad. She knew in her soul, or what was left of it, that she and Undertaker had parted ways before she ever stumbled into the Mojave, but she just couldn’t remember. Seemed to be a theme.

Sunny clapped her bicep sympathetically, oblivious to Sloan’s small flinch. “Doc said that might be a problem, if you made it. He had high hopes on you pulling through, you know.”

Sloan smiled bitterly. “It just never seems to stick.”

“You better hope it doesn’t. Come on, I’ve been drinkin’ sarsaparilla all day, tryna set up a decent shootin’ range. Glad you’re not a dick,” Sunny added with a full smile, her bright grin a testament to her nickname.

They slipped out of the back door together with a “Hey, Trudy,” to the robust woman behind the bar from Sunny. Sure enough, lined up on the fence behind the saloon were about ten empty bottles.

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to take a leak soon,” Sunny mused, gazing at the bottles. “Go on out about twenty paces or so, put that gun to good use.” Sloan saluted sarcastically, but did as she instructed.

At a sufficient distance away, Sloan dropped her duffel and pulled her shotgun into her hands, regarding it for just a moment. It was well used and well loved. Before all of this, she had been a good shot. A damn fine shot, even. She had had to be. Now, she wasn’t so sure. The thought of potentially losing another piece of herself, and one so important, made her nervous.

Sloan took a deep breath and tried not to let her hands shake. A loud click as she pumped it, then she took aim.

 _Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_ Golden glass glittered in the sunlight as each bottle erupted with the crystalline sound of them shattering.

 _Oh, right,_ she remembered abruptly. _This_ was why she wasn’t squeamish about flying lead and spilling blood. The _bang bang bang_ was the only thing that could drown out the tide of her thoughts.

The gun at last fell silent, only echoes reverberating off the old wooden walls of the bar and the sloping sides of the valley. “Nice shot,” Sunny said at last, her voice mild. “Yeah, I think you’re good. Drink?”

That question was an easy one, amnesia or no. “Hell yes.”

Sunny laughed. “Woman after my own heart. Hey, do me a favor, will ya? Trudy, the bartender in there, is kinda the town mom. She likes to meet newcomers, as infrequent as they are. She’ll be awful cross if we don’t say hello.”

Sloan shrugged. “Fair enough. Just hope she doesn’t ask what brings me to Goodsprings.”

Sunny snorted with amusement and pushed open the back door to reveal Trudy squaring up with a man in a dark bulletproof vest. “Look, bitch. I’m done being nice. If you don’t hand Ringo over soon, I’m going to get my friends and we’re burning this town to the ground, got it?” he snarled, pushing right up into Trudy’s space.

Trudy just cocked a hip, looking for all the world like a mobster herself, even in her dusty pink dress. “Yeah, we’ll keep that in mind, Cobb. Now, if you’re not going to buy something, get out,” she said dryly.

As Sloan and Sunny pushed forward, he rounded on them. “What’s your problem?” he snapped.

Sloan’s expression went icy, but Sunny spoke first. “My _problem_ ,” Sunny spat, easy countenance evaporated in the desert heat. “Is you hassling our bartender with cocksure threats. Leave Ringo alone, and get lost, asshole.”

The man just patted a stick of dynamite strapped into his belt. “Y’all got a day before you better start lockin’ up your wives.”

Any other words might have let the man leave alive. But as it was, Sloan bent down to retrieve Freedom. She had a code, and this man had just violated it. “Lock up your back door and run for your life,” she suggested, extending the enormous blade with a loud click, the metal gleaming dully in the dim light, a flat promise of violence. “Don’t you mess me around.”

The man backed up, fear in his eyes, which were locked on the blade. “Hey-!” Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of blood filling his lungs around the point where Sloan had sticked him through the gap in his vest around his arm.

She eyed him coldly as he slumped to the floor. When his breaths ceased, she turned to Trudy. “Sorry. I have a rule about men like him: there shouldn’t be,” Sloan growled. “I would bet they won’t take it lying down, and for that I’m sorry. I’ll help anyway I can.”

Trudy shook her head and returned to her place behind the bar. “Nah, you’re good, sweetheart,” she said almost nonchalantly, pouring out three glasses of ancient whiskey. “They will come, though. But they were going to come eventually. ‘Ts the nature ‘a gangs. That said, nice to meet you. I’m Trudy,” she said, sliding two of the glasses across the slick bar top, two fingers of liquor each.

Sloan swallowed with some difficulty. The last person to call her sweetheart with real affection… The smile she gave Trudy was soft. “Sloan. How can I help?”

Trudy knocked back a large swallow easily. “Go give Chet, the general store manager, a hard time. We need armor. Everybody in the town’s got a gun they’re ready to use, but less so armor.” Sloan nodded in acknowledgement.

“Sunny, fetch Ringo, and find some way to calm that anxious boy down,” Trudy directed. “I’ll hassle Easy Pete. Fire with fire, and all that.”

Sunny sighed and knocked her own whiskey back. “So much for that drink,” she remarked mournfully even as she set her empty glass down.

Sloan squeezed her shoulder. “Yeah, well, we can get hammered as a reward for surviving. When their guy isn’t home for dinner, they’ll retaliate. My guess is we have until nightfall before they mount an attack.” The two women nodded solemnly.

“Guess we better get going,” Trudy said wearily.

 

 

The people of Goodsprings had gathered in the Prospector Saloon, perhaps twenty-five of them in total, by the time Sloan had hauled the last box of armor inside. Only the threat of imminent, painful death at the hands of the gang Trudy had identified as the Powder Gangers had convinced Chet to help. He was very clear that his supply of leather armor was on loan, and better come back to him repaired.

For herself, Sloan had stripped the gangster- Joe Cobb, they had called him- of his bulletproof vest and the burnt orange handkerchief that had been tied around his neck. The inside was still a bit damp from the bottle of dirty water she had poured on it to attempt to wash out what blood she could, though it was quickly drying in the stifling heat. The Powder Ganger-trademarked vest would paint a target on her head when they came for Goodsprings, but that was alright. She had brought this down on them, after all. Maybe if they saw that she was down, they would let the rest of them live.

Not that she was going to go down easy.

Around the room, Goodsprings was gearing up for a fight. Guns were in the final stages of cleaning, bullets were being counted and loaded into bandoliers, and borrowed armor was carefully being strapped on. Trudy looked over it all like a general over her men, a shotgun resting on the bar counter.

Sloan set down the last crate and headed over. “I’m sorry, again,” she said in greeting.

Trudy just rolled her eyes, though her warm brown eyes were soft. “And I’m telling you again, it was gonna happen eventually. At least this way we got a warning. And the satisfaction of watching you shishkabob Cobb like the pig he was. That earns you some bonus points, in my book.” She regarded Sloan for a long moment, her stare unnervingly piercing, then came out from behind the counter to stand in front of her.

“I don’t know what happened to you, honey,” she began. Sloan would have cringed away if not for the sympathetic look in her eyes. Sympathetic, not pitying. Pity was just mongering for a story. Sympathy was rarer, and completely honest; it was the recognition of suffering, the recognition of the twinge of pain from within the place where the humanity went. One human feeling for another. So Sloan held her ground and let Trudy speak.

“But I think I know you. You’re righteous. Maybe not right, that’s true,” she added as Sloan gave her a highly skeptical look. “But you had your heart in the right place. You didn’t stick Cobb for any ol’ reason. You killed him for a good reason. So don’t you ever apologize for looking out for good folks. And call me biased, but Goodsprings is good folks.”

Sunny had indeed been right in calling Trudy the town mom. It was for that distinction and her sincerity only that Sloan glanced around the bar, scanning for eavesdropping ears and lingering eyes. Surprisingly finding none, she pushed up the left sleeve of her ever-present long sleeve t-shirt to bare her forearm. Just a quick flash, really, but it was enough.

“Shit,” Trudy breathed. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, her eyes round and watery when they found Sloan’s. “Don’t you ever apologize.” She held a hand out to Sloan in offering. She took it without hesitation, the acceptance giving Trudy leave to tuck a lock of her sand-blonde hair behind an ear.

“Goodsprings is good people. You are always welcome here. Always safe.” Before Trudy could hug her like she looked like she wanted to, Sunny strode over. Trudy sniffed discreetly and turned away for a brief moment to collect herself.

In tow a step behind Sunny was a young, twenty-something who looked to be somewhere between Latino and East Asian and extremely anxious. He shifted and wrung his hands, rocking back and forth on his heels like he had something he was scared to say.

Sure enough, he cleared his throat a few times before stuttering out his words. “H-hey, Missus Trudy. Thank you for sheltering me from the Gangers. I’m real sorry to have caused y’all trouble, ma’am,” he apologized, his words stumbling. If she had to take a bet, this was Ringo.

Trudy just rolled her eyes. “So you both keep on sayin’. Good God, y’all. How ‘bout we just make these Gangers’ insides their outsides and call it good, yeah?” Sloan and Sunny laughed at her idea of breaking even. Ringo smiled as well, though he looked mildly nauseous from fear.

At that moment, the guard that had been standing guard on the saloon porch came in. “We got trouble, y’all!” Ringo startled at the announcement and began to tremble, glancing around like he was looking for a trash can to throw up in.

The milling movements of the room shifted to action in a snap, and the townspeople began to spill out the doors. Half left through the back door, guns cocked and leveled.

“Hold it together just a little longer, Ringo,” Sunny said, ruffling the poor kid’s hair. “Stay here. Trudy will look out for you.” The three of them exchanged nods. Outside, the deafening sound of trading gunfire broke the last of the quiet.

“Let’s go!” Sloan ordered, kicking into gear through something like muscle memory. Together, they exited out the back door.

They slipped around the outside of the saloon, taking a moment to sneak a glimpse of the scene before them. In the setting sun they could see that a handful of Powder Gangers were already down, unmoving. None of the townspeople seemed to be injured yet, their knowledge of their home turf working for them in spades.

The Powder Gangers, for their part, seemed to be realizing why such a small town had lasted so long in a land teeming with gangs and tribals. Goodsprings sat nestled in a valley overlooking flat desert; the gangsters had no cover, and fired off desperate shots at the occasional glimpses of well armed, angry people defending their home.

Sloan rounded a corner, firing two shots off her pistol at two gangers making a mad dash for their front line. The first bullet clattered around the inside of a skull before continuing on, the gangster dropping like a rock. The second was expertly fielded by a waiting ribcage, though that that death involved a bit more screaming and thrashing on the ground before falling still. The two women took cover behind a line of heavily rusted Pre-War vehicles as a volley of lead clattered back.

“Nice shot!” Sunny yelled over the sound of the shootout. With a swift pump to her shotgun, she turned and let off a shot over the seat of a vehicle. The force of the round had the Powder Ganger stumbling back a few steps before falling backwards into the dusty soil.

“Why thank you!” Sloan called back, a laugh bubbling in her throat at finally moving, of taking her fate into her hands with a gun. “Likewise!”

“ _Incoming!_ ” someone yelled, breaking off their banter as a dull red stick of dynamite flew towards the ranks of their attackers. There was a short, deafening crash like monsoon thunder, and chunks of gangsters painted the desert’s blank canvas a brilliant red as the explosion erupted in a blinding flash. Sloan’s ears rang for a moment before the sounds of gunfire started to filter back in.

“Christ,” she muttered, though she couldn’t quite hear herself say it.

“Glad Easy Pete is on our side, huh!” Sunny yelled as if she, too, was still feeling the effects of the explosion.

“I’d hate to meet Hard Peter,” Sloan reposited with a smile that probably looked fucking insane, considering their situation.

But fire called down fire, or in this case dynamite. An answering stick sailed down the main road and behind their wall of cover.

“Watch out!” Sloan barked, worry shooting through her veins for these strangers. The settlers closes skittered backwards for other cover, avoiding the brunt of the blast as it went off with another teeth-rattling explosion. As it was, the broken wagon that had been abandoned to the desert and near where the dynamite had landed erupted in a spray of splinters.

A few of the shards reached Sloan and Sunny, but nothing serious beyond some nasty bits to pick out with tweezers later.

It only seemed to rile up the settlers further. With a unified cry, they unleashed a veritable hail of bullets that darkened the sky, accompanied by another Easy Pete party favor. Sloan and Sunny rose from their places as the gunfire broke off as clips emptied, easily picking off the panicking survivors.

A loud whoop (and a few pained groans) rose up in the streets in the place of echoing gunfire. They had won.

Sloan found herself smiling broadly as Sunny slapped her hard on the back. “Hell yeah!” Sunny cheered, her brown eyes a happy, almost orange color in the glow of the setting sun. “Take that, motherfuckers!”

Sloan gave her a friendly shove. “You know what that means!”

“Getting hammered?” Sunny answered hopefully.

“Getting hammered,” Sloan agreed.

 

 

More than one vengeful townsperson or concerned spouse thanked her over the duration of the night for not taking the Powder Gangers’ shit. Trudy served free drinks all night, and even got that hug in, much to Sloan's (very overdone, very fake) chagrin.

 _Late_ was edging toward _early_ and _buzzed_ towards _fucking plastered_ when a heavy hand settled on her shoulder. Sloan turned to see Easy Pete looming over her, looking like he was about to tear her a new one for bringing down trouble, as she had fully expected someone to do all night. She was almost relieved.

“You’re a good shot, kid,” he rumbled, plunking a wide-brimmed leather hat on her head. “You ain’t too bad, either.” And then he walked away.

Sloan touched the hat in wasted wonder, making eye contact with an equally shocked, equally wasted Sunny. “W _ooooooo_ wie,” she remarked artfully. Sunny just nodded solemnly in response as if she had quoted the Bible.

Maybe it was the easy acceptance of the town or the therapeutic murder of the evening, but when her tolerance finally broke and she fell asleep, it was with a smile on her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Seriously. Good God, y'all.


	3. Gimme Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to ROSA who left a very sweet comment. You gave me the strength to get off my ass and finish this chapter.
> 
> That said, it's a shitty gift. Check out the trigger warnings.

_Oh, see the fire is sweepin’_

_Our very street today_

_Burns like a red coal carpet_

_Mad bull lost its way_

_Rape, murder!_

_It’s just a shot away_

-The Rolling Stones

 

When Sloan awoke to a nasty pounding in her head, she thought she had been shot again.

With a heartfelt groan, she peeled her face off the polished bar counter.

“Finally awake, then?” A voice asked.

With a feeling of deja vu, Sloan looked up to see Trudy looking down at her sympathetically. “Sh _hhhhhhhhhh,_ ” Sloan begged in reply.

“Yeah, yeah,” Trudy said, pushing a glass of water across the bar. Or maybe it was vodka. Either was fine.

Sloan gratefully knocked back six whole glasses of what she decided was water before putting her head back down.

Somewhere above her head, Trudy sighed. “C’mon, let’s at least get you to the couch. Then you can sleep it off without ruining your back.” Sloan just grunted and let the motherly bartender manhandle her onto the couch in the adjacent room. Sunny and Ringo were both still knocked out as well, scattered across the other couches, but everyone else seemed to have cleared out.

Trudy pulled off her boots. When had she laid down? Whatever. It was too bright to think, anyways.

“T’ youuuuu,” Sloan slurred at Trudy’s retreating form. The woman probably rolled her eyes, but Sloan was already asleep.

 

When she woke for the second time, her headache was still present, but throbbed dully instead of a pounding reminiscent of an aneurysm. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she squinted around the bright room. Sunny and Ringo were gone this time, the bar completely empty. In the corner, the jukebox played softly.

Sloan slipped her socked feet back into her boots, which she only vaguely remembered Trudy pulling off. Jesus, her feet were _rank._ She needed a bath.

At some point in her sleep, she had unstrapped her vest and tossed it halfway across the room in what was likely a fit of undrunken discontent. On precarious but steady feet, she retrieved it, slipping it on as she headed for the bar. But Trudy’s already familiar figure was oddly absent. Frowning, Sloan pulled the brim of her askew hat down and braved the outside.

Trudy glanced up from the chair on the porch, a battered book in hand. “Hey, kiddo. How ya’ feelin’?”

Sloan scowled at the glittering desert sands. “Hungover.”

Trudy barked a laugh. “Yeah, that’s accurate. But you should be fine in a few hours if you keep drinking water.”

Sloan hummed in agreement and slumped into the chair next to Trudy’s, content to just _look_ for a while. It had been a long time since she had paused anywhere. Probably since that winter in Roadhead, actually.

But as was the nature of her life, it couldn’t last long. There was a man out there with an ugly coat and the satisfaction of shooting her in the head, and that was something she wouldn’t stand for.

“So. Trudy,” Sloan began. “Do you know where the man in the checkered coat went?”

Trudy looked at Sloan with sad, disappointed eyes. But the safety of Goodsprings wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be. Besides, a home was not for the half alive. Anger, vengeance, blood- they kept her going. Without them, she would have to learn how to stop. And she wasn’t sure there was anything left to be found if she ground her running to a halt; she had thrown off anything of weight to go farther, faster. So for now, she had a target.

“Where is the man who shot me?”

 

She told Trudy to tell Sunny goodbye, but didn’t bother with anything else. Walking out of the valley, she reloaded her shotgun and headed for New Vegas. It emerged from the landscape just as Sunny had described, a beacon. A target.

 

It was late afternoon when she wandered into Primm, the smell of death in the air, borne on smoke still slithering into the blue sky. It was all too familiar.

NCR troops wandered the streets, looking edgy. It didn’t take long for one of them to notice and intercept her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, levelling a standard issue rifle at her chest.

“I’m a courier,” Sloan snapped back, jerking a thumb at the Mojave Express station. She knew that much; she’d been a courier for years. Her first package had been from Roadhead when the mountain winter broke. Where the package had gone after that, she couldn’t remember.

The soldier lowered his rifle. “Fair enough. We just blew away the Powder Gangers holing up in the town hotel, so we’re a bit jumpy.”

Sloan just raised a brow. “Yeah, I can see that.”

The man raised his hands defensively. “Hey, better safe than sorry, right? But if you’re looking for a place to crash, you’re gonna have to keep walking to Novac, or at least Nipton. Just follow the road, you’ll find it no problem.” Sloan sighed. It just kept getting better and better. “I hear you, sister. Oh, and one last thing.” Oh, great. “Your guy, the one that ran the courier system in the Mojave? Locals identified him among the dead. Just an hour ago, actually. Hope you weren’t looking to get paid.”

Sloan groaned, loud and long. “Do you have any _good_ news?”

“Uh… no?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, whatever. As for the Powder Gangers, rest assured Joe Cobb and a bunch of his fellow assholes are rotting in a ditch outside Goodsprings. They launched a raid yesterday. Didn’t go so well for them.”

The soldier whistled appreciatively. “Well, I’ll be damned. Can’t say I’m sad to see the fucker go.”

“Was anybody?” she remarked dryly.

“S’pose not.” The soldier shrugged. “Travel safe, then.” He gave her a lazy salute as he turned on a heel and returned to his comrades.

Sloan glanced up at the setting sun. Hopefully she’d make it before the nightstalkers came out.

 

 

She made it to Nipton. She wished she hadn’t.

Fire. The light burned for miles, its source easily fifteen feet high, a beacon in the encroaching dark. A mockery of that night so many years ago.

She should run. She should forget the chip, her vengeance, the man in the checkered coat and run. Yet her feet kept on taking her forward. Closer until she could smell burning flesh, a hundred times stronger than the smoking ruins of the Primm hotel. The acrid tang of smoking rubber laced the scent, shoving its way down her throat. She walked until she was close enough to hear the roar and crackle of the enormous fire that blazed at the entrance of the town, illuminating the red and gold flag of the Legion.

Out of the gloom joined the sound of frantic footsteps on cracked pavement. Sloan froze, leveling her gun and bracing to run for her life. Then a figure came careening around the corner, whooping with unrestrained glee. Sloan waited, but the figure remained unpursued, even as they- _he,_ she saw- neared the town limits. What was going on? Legion didn’t leave survivors.

“Hell yeah!” he yelled, jumping in her face, breath thick with the tang of blood, one eye shiny black and swollen shut. “Who won the lottery? I did!” he crowed, twisting around and around maniacally, arms open wide. “Smell that air! Couldn’t you just drink it like booze!” He giggled, sky high off of freedom.

Dreading his next words, Sloan asked cautiously, slowly, “Lottery?”

“Only lottery that matters, baby. I’m outta here, before they change their minds and nail me up with the losers.” He glanced behind him, his euphoria evaporated. When he took off sprinting again, it was out of fear.

It didn’t take a genius. She knew the Legion was sick, but this… this was shrugging off any pretense at humanity.

She stayed stock still, not retreating but not daring a step forward. What if there were survivors? Could she in good conscience let the squadron move on from Nipton, knowing what they were doing?

 _Regret,_ she had told Doc Mitchell. Regret that had haunted her with every step she took West. She didn’t know if she could handle more regret like that. Besides, it wasn’t like anybody was waiting on her to come home. She just had to be careful to get killed, not caught.

Decision made, she slunk towards the nearby Nipton trading post building to ready her guns out of sight. Ready herself.

The door creaked open on mildly rusted hinges, but didn’t screech like she was afraid it would.

“Ah, Jesus fucking Christ,” an unfamiliar voice griped. “It wasn’t enough to get my legs smashed. Now I gotta play tour guide for the Legion’s conversion camp? Wish I had enough Med-X to fucking OD,” he finished, grumbling. The man had dark skin and the outfit of the Powder Gangers, and seemed to be confined to a wheelchair.

Sloan rolled her eyes. “I don’t need it spelled out for me. There any survivors?”

“Do you _think_ there’s any fucking survivors?” the man snapped back.

Sloan cocked an eyebrow. “There’s you.”

He scoffed. “Because I got second fucking place in that stupid fucking lotto.” He paused then. “Wait. You… are you the one that killed Cobb?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice fucking going. When the Gangers sieged Goodsprings, it left us wide fucking open here. And now what? You’re here to finish the job, some kind of grim fucking reaper?” His tone was harsh, but his eyes were dead tired from all he had seen, all he had lost.

Sloan sighed and dropped her duffel on the ground. “Can I just give you some Med-X to shut up? Maybe wipe out some Legion?” she asked, crouching beside her bag and rooting through it.

“Sure. Dunno why you’d want to,” he answered, eying her warily.

“‘Cause I know how to hold a grudge.” She fished out three syringes of Med-X and walked them over. “All I got. Don’t spend it all in one place. What’s your name, anyway?”

“They call me Boxcar,” he muttered, accepting the syringes somewhat meekly. “Or they _did._ Asshole.”

She rolled her eyes again. “If you’re gonna insult me, at least get creative.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Gladly.”

She plunked down beside her duffel and began strapping on weapons and ammo. Easily enough to take down the entire platoon, if she didn’t get her brains blown out first.

When she had at last completed her arsenal some ten minutes later, she slipped back out the door.

And right into the waiting arms of a legionnaire. “Gotcha, bitch,” he huffed in her ear, easily wrenching her arms behind her back. _Fuck._ Either he had been on patrol, or Boxcar’s yelling had drawn him over.

She started lashing out, flailing, trying desperately to get free. _Free_. Not again. Never again.

She slammed her head into her captor’s nose, making them both grunt as it crunched wetly. But suddenly, two more legionnaires were around them. Fists slammed into her stomach, her face, her throat- anywhere they could reach. Kicking her feet found no purchase, and her arms stayed pinned behind her back.

For all her effort, it was over quickly. Barely a handful of seconds had passed before they were hauled her down the road as she struggled to maintain consciousness.

On either side of the pavement, crucified Powder Gangers moaned on crosses, dark blood drying on their hands. Over it all, fire crackled. And there, at the end of the road, were a dozen or so legionnaires, mean-looking dogs circling. Two of them fought over a charred corpse. It looked small.

The three legionnaires hauled her to a stop in front of a man in a wolf-skin hood, teeth poking out over his forehead. Familiar cold blue eyes flickered red in the firelight, taking her in. Eyes that had mocked her over the sounds of too-familiar screams. Eyes that had watched her for years.

_A feminine hand grazed hers as she passed, legs trembling under the enormous crate strapped on her back. A meager comfort, but all that would go unnoticed by watchful eyes. Trailing behind her, barely a breath on the air, a warning-_

“Vulpes.” The word was out of her mouth before she could think not to. For all her stalwart promises to be careful, there was a scared kind of acceptance in her voice. And she was. Scared. Because Sloan knew what was coming. There was no ‘pure degeneracy’ to save her now. He had made sure of that.

The smile that split across his- the _monster’s_ \- face was like a gaping wound, skin peeling away to the bone. “So you know who I am. It’s always nice to see word of the Legion getting around,” he drawled. His voice had a cold kind of glee to it that chilled her down to her boots, and it had nothing to do with the sun going down. It, too, hid, slinking behind the horizon to wait, hoping it would be gone in the morning.

But he hadn’t recognized her under her hat. Small mercies, thank _God._

Her captors let her go and stood back. Giving Vulpes room to do whatever he wanted. Everything in her screamed to run, but she knew they would only shoot her in the back instead of the front.

“Still,” Vulpes continued. “You’ll get to leave here and pass on what you’ve seen here. Our second place winner certainly can’t,” he said. _Joking._ “We have no use for you as a slave. Not today.”

It was the word ‘slave’ that brought her back to herself. _A heavy weight, the burn of sunbaked metal and aching thighs, a hissed warning (eyes down!)-_

“Go to hell!” Sloan snapped, taking a step back. “Take your fucking lessons and go to _hell_ , you crazy son of a bitch!” She was angry, enraged beyond belief. But her voice quaked with fear, not fury. And Vulpes could hear it- she knew from the way his smile widened. He stepped closer.

 _No, no, no._ Too close. She could smell him, now: blood, sweat, and body smoke. And then his eyes were right in front of hers, blue to blue as he peered under the low brim of her hat.

“Hello, darling,” he crooned, his voice like poisoned honey. “I was hoping I would find you again. Abigail.”

 _Abigail._ The name she had left in the dust, left in the East. The name tainted by men like him and bittersweet memories.

“No,” she managed in a cracked whisper, barely a whistle through her throat.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our time together.” _Fingers trailing softly along her arms like blackmail. Sweet, nasty nothings whispered in her ear, his promises like threats. “I have Caesar’s favor. He’ll give me what I want.”_ No. She had not forgotten, no matter how hard she tried.

“Or maybe you have,” he went on, leaning ever closer to trace the dark circle on her forehead. Sloan shuddered, nausea coiling her stomach and her chest tightening as if it could protect her from this. “Who hurt you, baby? You know only I get to hurt you.”

She clenched her eyes shut. _Pain. Endless pain as he pounded into her again and again and again, only going faster at the blood between her legs. Taking what was left of her. Of Abigail. She stayed still, fearing fists._

“Tell me,” he hissed, his cold hands like a corpse as it latched onto her forearm. Claiming her, as good as a tug on a collar.

“A man in a checkered coat,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Good, good,” he crooned, his death grip going soft as he rubbed his fingertips up and down her sleeve. “You remember. I don’t have to remind you of our partnership, do I?” _Partnership,_ ha.

She didn’t dare say so aloud. Instead she ran her tongue across the back of her teeth. “No,” she murmured, eyes opening to stare at the ground. Dead.

“Truly? I thought you would want to remember how you slaughtered those men like pigs. You certainly left them looking like you had fun.” Her eyes snapped up to his, searching for a threat. He looked somewhere between pissed and amused.

_Blood- caked under her nails, chunks sticking to her arms and bare legs. The kiss of night air down panting lungs as she put the North Star to her right and ran. Stars in an open sky, promising. Promising freedom._

Freedom.

Sloan took a step back. “Listen. You let me go, or I go out in a spray of bullets with one for me. You know I’ll do it. Ever since I got a taste of Legion barbecue, I’ve been itching for another shot.” The smile she plastered on was fake as hell, but cocky.

Vulpes laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “There’s the spirit I remember. I’ll get my chance to break it. But for now, go. My _contubernium_ and I still have a mission ahead of us I won’t jeopardize for one woman.” He stepped forward again to trail a hand along her cheek, tracing a scar there. “I pray Lady Luck will have us meet again.”

Sloan smacked his hand away and took another step back. “Get lost.” Vulpes only smiled, but didn’t pursue. He gazed at her a moment longer, something like satisfaction in his eyes, before he turned back to his men. “Fall in! We’ve successfully cleansed Nipton.”

The milling group of red-clad legionnaires fell into three neat lines of four, the dogs following. As a unit, Sloan watched them march away. Only when they were long gone could she move again.

In a sort of daze, she wandered back down the road. The crucified Powder Gangers had gone still. With a weight like lead, she pushed back into the trading post.

“What the- how the fuck are you alive?” Boxcar demanded, almost sounding angry at her survival. “I saw them nab you!”

“They’re gone,” Sloan replied dully.

Boxcar regarded her, unbelieving. “Yeah, alright,” he said at last.

Sloan flopped to the hardwood floor, pillowing her head on a spare shirt. “I’m sleeping here tonight.”

“Like hell you are,” Boxcar scoffed. “What’s wrong with _anywhere else?_ ”

“Smells like your dead neighbors,” Sloan grunted. It was true. It just smelled vaguely smoky, but mostly musty in the old building.

“...Fair enough. But if you snore-”

She threw an arm over her eyes, slowly returning to herself. “Ah, shut it, dirtbag.”

He growled. “Oh, if you hadn’t-”

Sloan waved her arm. “I’d be dead in my sleep. I get it. Shut up and let me sleep.”

A pause. “Ass,” he muttered.

An hour passed. She didn’t fall asleep. Leaving behind what was left of her food and taking a bottle of whiskey in return, she wandered out into the night.

Only a mile away and in the dark did she finally give in to the crawling feeling in her fingertips, the wanting echo of an action. She pulled up her sleeve. There, on her forearm, tattooed in black ink, inescapable as the inside of her head. She had tried to scratch it out with fingernails and with knives, but it only left the tattoo as warped as its namesake.

_VULPES._


	4. Lions For Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had a couple graphic spots, so check those tags.  
> Is Boone mildly OOC? Maybe. But he's twenty six. He should be a frat boy, not a widower. Let the boy grieve.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the absolutely stunning homukuma. Your words were incredibly sweet, and I have them screenshotted on my phone. I ended up having an incredibly rough week and your words were a bright spot I could come back to. I wish you the best. You again renewed my strength in this story. I hope this is an adequate gift.

_Now there’s something in the road_

_I’m going too fast and it’s going too slow_

_Armed with welcomes and goodbyes_

_One lives, one dies_

_Soft and a little silent,_

_It sure beats a violent streak_

_I’ll be your pretty little tyrant_

The Wet Darlings

 

It was a few hours before dawn when Sloan stumbled off the old interstate towards the dark outline of Novac. A giant dinosaur statue guarded the entrance, holding a bitten sign proclaiming its hotel. From its gaping jaw, Sloan could swear she saw movement. It would serve as a fine enough sniper’s roost, she supposed. Smart. She saluted in its direction with her half empty whiskey bottle. Not that she would particularly mind if she got shot right about now, as long as she stayed gone.

But when she stumbled to the gate surrounding the hotel, the front office was locked. She tested the gate itself- locked. Growing increasingly, drunkenly desperate and edging into panic, she rattled the chain links like a caged animal, except she was on the wrong side of the fence. She was trapped everywhere with nowhere to go home to, nowhere safe to settle for more than a few days at most. Moving, always moving. If there wasn’t an ocean west of California, she would have kept going those years ago. But she would take a cage, now, if it only meant a place to hide.

She rested her head against the cold metal. She would stay awake until the hotel opened; there was no way she would sleep in the open after tonight. Not when she knew that _apparently_ Legion were wandering around unchecked, burning up towns for kicks.

The thought of this terrible night lasting nay longer made her want to scream. All she wanted was to sleep for three days, hell maybe until she died, and wash the lingering touch of unwelcome hands off her body.

“What do you want?” a voice snapped from the darkness. Sloan’s head jerked up to see a man in partial NCR fatigues striding across the hotel plaza, a rifle slung across wide shoulders. As he came closer, she could see a squadron beret on his head and sunglasses tucked into the collar of his worn t-shirt.

“What, don’t expect visitors at a hotel? Seems kinda stupid,” she slurred, still slumped against the fence.

“Not like you,” he said shortly. Unhelpfully, even.

Sloan scoffed. “Drunk? It’s not that uncommon.”

He looked her up and down- not leering, like she was used to, but sizing up. “Your accent isn’t from around here.”

She nodded solemnly. “I don’t say ‘y’all’ enough.”

“Where are you from?” he asked, his voice wary. As if he was expecting a specific answer.

“Du’n’t matter. Not goin’ back,” she answered. “C’nt bel _ieeeeeve_ it was some asshole in a stupid fuckin’ _dog hat_ ruined my fuckin’ life,” she muttered to herself. “Ain’t that just fuckin’ rich. Y’ know, I like dogs. I had a dog. Or maybe a wolf. Never could tell.” She frowned. “Y’ know, the hat’s new. I don’t like the hat,” she said, distantly aware that she was rambling. “What an _asshole._ I bet he has a _stupid_ sunglasses tan.”

“Dog hat?” the man asked, his voice calm in the way it is before a storm. As drunk as she’d like to be, she’s not drunk enough to put aside her painfully, deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation. She took a quick step back, hand going to her shotgun.

“What’s it to you?” she asked, suddenly wide awake and ready to bolt. Hell, she was still backing up.

“My wife… was sold to the Legion, alright?” he barked. “One of the bastards had a wolf hood. Or dog hat, as you call it,” the man explained.

Sloan ground her teeth, tightening her grip on her gun. “Vulpes,” she hissed, both a curse and an answer.

“You know him?” he inquired, fingers sliding to his own gun.

She felt a muscle in her jaw flex painfully. “Oh, too well. But he’ll pay. In this life or the next. He’s at the very top of my shit list, right above the asshole that shot me.” Oh, he’d pay. She’d carve _her_ name into his still beating heart as he screamed for mercy. Or maybe she’d return the favor and pump him so full of drugs all he could do was lay trapped in a dying body.

Her thoughts were cut off abruptly by the sound of the gate opening, metal dragging over pavement. “Welcome to Novac,” the man greeted, though his face wasn’t exactly welcoming.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, if slurred. Adrenaline fading, the whiskey was beginning to make its rounds again.

“Any enemy of the Legion is a friend of mine. There’s a spare room on the second floor, second door down,” he said as he closed the gate behind them. “Breakfast in the pavilion in the morning. It’ll be twenty caps.”

 

 

The water pressure was terrible and the water cold, but Sloan welcomed its sobering effects. Well, kind of. Scrubbing her skin just short of bleeding wouldn’t do any good if she forgot doing it, but she didn’t want to remember tonight.

So she shivered violently under the stream, clawing at pale skin. God, she hated seeing it.

_The bed creaked and groaned with his movements, mingling with his grunts of pleasure and exertion. The air smelled of blood and sweat. Drugs made her limbs heavy and disobedient. She’d practically fallen into his arms when they shoved her, freshly doped up, into his tent._

_Her arm burned with setting ink, her bomb collar exchanged for the leather strap marking her as an officer’s wife. Wife, ha. A slave was a slave._

_She was too dazed to notice how she had gotten into the bed. Jesus, it was about to happen. This was it. No one was here to save her._

_Cold hands stripped her of the short, dark gray burlap that was her modicum of modesty. She never thought she’d be scared to see it go. She would have shuddered at the brush of lips along her skin. Whispering. “Abigail.” Lying, tender fingers over his own name, burning in their wake._

_Through it all, she kept her eyes fixed on her right arm, counted the freckles on her arm as if this wasn’t happening. As if she couldn’t see his hips pistoning into hers in her periphery. She just gazed at her arm, willing her tendons to move._

_When he came, an exhale against her collarbone, her fingers were curled in a fist. The rest of her body was stiff._

Fury tunneled through Sloan’s veins. It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair_. She wanted to go _home._ Wanted to be fifteen and crawl into her mother’s arms. Wanted to be able to look at her skin without wanting to scratch it off.

With a tormented scream, she launched her left fist into the shower wall. With a crack and a crunch, one of the old tiles cracked as the bones in her hand splintered.

“ _Jesus fuck!_ ” she yelled, cradling her hand against her body. _Stupid_. That was one less hand to defend herself with. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She slammed the water off with her good hand and stumbled out of the shower.

To her left, she caught a flash of dark gold. Turning, she came face to face with her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. A dozen blue eyes looked back at her, asking age old questions she couldn’t answer. _Why? Why me? Why, why, why?_

“I don’t know,” she whispered, begging her reflection to stop asking. She only looked more distressed. “I don’t know what to do. I tried to fight and got caught. I tried to run and ran in a massive fucking circle. It’s not my _fault_ I can’t die.”

The reflection looked pathetic, all wide eyes and hair sticking to her skin, naked in the flickering fluorescent light. “I want to go home,” it pleaded.

“There’s nowhere to _go,_ ” Sloan snapped back, wishing to stupid bitch would straighten up and take it.

“Yes there is. Stop running.” The reflection nodded at her bared arm.

“ _No,_ ” Sloan hissed.

“No more fear. No more running. If you shut up and take it, you’ll live alright,” she reasoned.

“Then they died for nothing. Shut up. _Shut up,_ ” she demanded, nails scratching into her tattoo, broken knuckles wailing in protest. This wasn’t her talking. It was _him._ “Shut up!” she gritted out, scratching deeper. “Shut _up!_ ”

Only when blood washed out the letters did she come down from her mania. Fucking hell, she was fucking nuts. She was losing it, really losing it.

A sudden wave of exhaustion almost knocked her off her feet. She wanted to _sleep._ Just drop out of the world for a day or forever, sleep until she could face the rising sun. _Just as the sun rises in the morning, the sun too will one day set._ A hymn passed between breaking backs. _One day your days will be over and all your troubles past._

Too tired to dry off, she pulled on her clothes wet. Hand cradled against her stomach, she fell onto the old, but clean sheets. She would deal with it all when she woke up. _If you wake up,_ a piece of her mind added optimistically.

She fell asleep.

 

 

Sloan awoke in dim light, feeling as if she had slept for weeks. But she felt better, if numb. With a yawn, she hauled herself out of bed and out the door.

A look at the sky put the time at late afternoon, the sun quickly setting to the west. A shame. She would have liked to lounge on the hotel’s balcony in the sun.

Her stomach grumbled. Yeah, the real shame was leaving that ass Boxcar all her food. Though there had to be a trading post around somewhere, right?

Sloan headed down the stairs to push into the front office.

“Hello!” a woman behind the desk greeted. “You must be the renter that came in last night. Boone left me a note saying he let you in. Nice to meet you.” The woman was getting on in unkind years, her hair more gray than brown, and a mouth that pulled down at the corners despite her plastered-on smile. It was all very… insincere. It made her nervous.

“Yeah,” Sloan replied with an awkward smile. She got the feeling this woman was a traditionalist who expected table manners at all time, a gut instinct that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Her greeting had been leading. Expectant. Graciousness for the sake of image, respect demanded because she thought she was entitled to it. “Nice to meet you too, ma’am.” She wasn’t a coward- not usually, anyway. But this woman made her uncomfortable, awakened that urge to run far and fast. It reminded her of barked orders to keep her eyes down. Last night had left her (understandably) raw; she could forgive a little loss of pride.

It was apparently the right move. The woman’s smile brightened to something nearing honest. “Where are my manners? I’m Jeannie May Crawford, owner of this fine establishment.”

Sloan kept her mouth shut about the water pressure and shook Jeannie’s outstretched hand. “Sloan.”

Jeannie’s face scrunched in ‘good humored’ distaste. “Not a very pretty name, is it? Your parents won’t let you go by anything else?”

Sloan’s smile turned frigid. “I suppose not. But my parents are both about a decade dead, so I haven’t had a chance to ask.”

Jeannie’s face went pale at her own rudeness being called out, even as her eyes hardened at Sloan’s ‘insolence.’ Like she owed anybody anything. “Oh, you poor thing. You can’t be more than twenty-five, too. What an age to lose your parents.”

“Twenty-seven, ma’am. Anyways, could you please direct me to a general store? I need to buy some food.”

“Oh, sure thing. That big dinosaur? We call him Dinky. There’s a door in his side, just go on in. Ol’ Cliff Briscoe runs a shop out of there,” Jeannie directed.

Cliff Briscoe was miles nicer than Jeannie, though he really, _really_ wanted to sell her a plastic Dinky souvenir. But priced at a thousand caps a pop- a number that made her choke in surprise (“Sorry, sorry, choked on my own spit there”)- she could hardly afford to appease him.

Duffel sufficiently replenished, she stepped back out into the Mojave. And ran right into the man from the night before- Boone.

A spike of pain shot through her hand as it was caught between them. With a strangled yelp, Sloan jumped back, cradling her hand protectively.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologized. “You okay? Actually, what the hell happened to you?” he asked, able to see the bruises littering her face in the golden light.

Sloan dragged her good hand down her face. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just forgot I did it. Pretty stupid, huh?” She prodded at her swollen knuckles, pulling a sharp breath through her teeth, before looking back up. “Hey, thanks for helping me out. I don’t take it lightly.”

“No problem,” he replied a bit tonelessly. He was younger than she had initially thought; close to her age, likely a little younger. “You…” he began again. “Can I talk to you for a minute? In private?”

Sloan cocked her head. She _did_ owe him one. “Sure,” she agreed at last. “But try anything funny _in private_ and I’ll cut those sweet little hands off.”

He didn’t look impressed at her threats. “Luckily for you, I’m told I have the humor of a brick wall.” With that, he pushed past her and into the body of the dinosaur.

Sloan followed him warily up a set of creaking metal stairs that climbed through the dinosaur’s neck to a door. Behind it was a platform within the mouth. A sniper’s roost, just as she’d suspected.

She crossed her arms, waiting. Boone scanned the landscape for a moment, then turned to her. “You planning on leaving town soon?” It was clear it wasn’t the question he wanted to ask.

Nonetheless, she answered. “Sooner than later. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. What do you want from me?” she asked bluntly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Boone seemed to respect that, and nodded. “I need someone I can trust. You’re a stranger. That’s a start.” He tapped the taut strap of  his rifle, belaying his nervousness. He had said it himself- there was no one else to ask.

“A terrible start, take it from someone who knows.” His head jerked up to scan her face. “But I’m listening. What’s up?”

He looked at her a long moment. “Where did you say you were from again?” She smiled, but didn’t reply. “Alright, I want you to find something out for me. I- I don’t know if there’s anything to find, but I need someone try.” He sounded so abruptly _lost._ Like he was longing for a home to go back to. She knew the feeling. “My wife… they knew when to come, what route to take, and they only took her- Carla.” The name on his lips is precious, a plea for her to come on home. But his demeanor hardened as quickly as it had cracked, boiling anger taking its place. “Someone set it up. I don’t know who,” he growled, turning back to the Mojave. As if they would wander into his sights by some stroke of luck or fate and never leave. “My wife is dead. I want the son of a bitch who sold her,” he said, eyes meeting hers even through his sunglasses.

Sloan knew in her bones then that this poor man had seen it all. Seen his wife die in Legion hands without reason, without justice. And wasn’t that just life? It was not the chaos, not the pain, that truly haunted you after the wound. The _why_ and _why me._ People ran to God, to karma, to anything that could explain it all. And maybe there was God, maybe there was karma, but there was still chaos and disorder. And that’s what stuck. _Why._

_The gunshot echoed in screams, his shotgun clattering to the floor with his limp body. It was surreal, a painting. Nothing real could be that profound._

_Swarming red. Familiar screams. Trying desperately to see her even as she prayed to God she would forget what she saw._

_She never forgot._

“Am I boring you?” Boone’s harsh voice sliced through her memories, his shoulders stiff and declaring his anger.

Her eyes cut back to his face. “I’ll do it.”

He startled. “What?”

“I’ll do it, alright? I’ll find the fucker who sold your wife and put ‘em in your scope. You have my word or my left pinkie finger,” she promised, sticking up her aforementioned aching finger. “I take it you’re the night watch?”

Boone looked like he had been dangled out of a Brotherhood helicopter by his shoelaces then declared president of the NCR. “I- yeah. Thanks for this.”

Sloan shrugged, turning for the door. “Oh, it’ll be my pleasure. The name’s Sloan, by the way,” she tossed over her shoulder and closed the door behind her.

She already had a pretty good idea of where to start looking. She just needed time and a bobby pin. Her stomach growled. And maybe some dinner.

 

 

Sloan crunched on Sugar Bombs, legs dangling from the balcony where they poked through the guardrail slats. She kicked them absently as she observed the plaza.

The sun had set about an hour ago. In that time, a NCR ranger had limped out of a cabin to stoke a fire to life in the firepit and had lingered there, gazing into the flames. She wasn’t too worried about getting past him, though. He looked a thousand miles away, dark face a deep orange in the firelight.

So she waited. If she thought about ti, it was honestly incredible that she had stayed in Novac this long. She wondered why she wasn’t running as far and as fast as she could, away from this frontline. Maybe it was the promise of traitorous blood.

_She had thought she was safe. Like a goddamned fool, she had thought she was safe at last. Clutching hands in the dark proved her wrong. Indifferent eyes presiding proved her wrong._

_But they had thought they could hold her. She had proved them wrong, burning their mistakes into their skin._

She watched as Jeannie crossed the plaza. Dusting the sugar off her hands, Sloan got to her feet.

She had ditched her heavy boots for bare feet before settling down. Now she creeped down the stairs, the padding of her feet silent. She had climbed the stairs a dozen times that afternoon, learning the places where it creaked and groaned. As she padded down the stairs, they kept her secret. No one would know she had left the balcony at all.

She stole across the plaza, away from the front gate. In a dark, nondescript corner, she climbed the fence. From there, she circled behind the hotel back to the (now locked) front gate. More specifically, the office.

Now for the fun part. She pulled a bobby pin from her hair, the upper piece bent upwards at the end to serve as a pick. With a cursory glance to each side, she set to jimmying the lock.

Thirty seconds with the tip of her tongue between her teeth rewarded her with a satisfying click.

“Thank _you,_ ” she murmured appreciatively, and slipped into the office.

The lights were off, but that wasn’t a problem. She was more than used to finding things in the dark. After a few moments of quiet breathing, she could make out the shape of the desk. And beyond that- a faint blue light? Seemed like a good place to start.

Tracing the edge of the desk, she circled it to crouch beside the source of the light where it was embedded into the floor. _STATUS: LOCKED,_ the safe proudly proclaimed.

“Not for long, ya’ shady bastard,” Sloan muttered. The dark would, thankfully, not hinder her too much; it was all in the give of the tumblers. It wasn’t like she could see into the lock anyway, no matter the light.

She fumbled with the bobby pin for a long minute, trying to find the slot in the dark, before it slipped inside. “Alright,” she murmured, twisting and pushing at the tumbler. In a short second, she slipped past as it found its place and moved onto the next. This one didn’t want to take; it took a good fifteen seconds of bated breath. For a split second, she had thought the bobby pin was going to snap, until the tumbler gave way. The next two were smooth sailing, much to her gratification.

_STATUS: UNLOCKED._

Sloan smiled and hauled the small steel door open. And… she couldn’t see what any of the shit was, just dark puddles of shadow in vague shapes. Like an idiot, she had left Doc Mitchell’s pipboy and its flashlight function in her room.

She stuck her hand blindly inside the safe and scooped out its contents. A bag that felt like leather filled with what felt and jangled like caps, what felt like the sharp wood edges and indents of a picture frame, and a folded slip of paper. The way her stomach dropped and twisted, pushing her guts up into her throat, told her what it was.

But she unfolded it anyway and held it up to the weak blue light of the safe. It wasn’t easy, but she would dimly make out the words. _This receipt signifies the completion of the sale of one Carla Boone to one Jeannie May Crawford by Caesar’s Legion for two hundred caps. Signed officer, Vulpes Inculta._

The paper crunched in her fist. Two hundred caps. She had bought guns for more. To sell a _person_ for two hundred caps was… was… she couldn’t think of a good enough word for her disgust.

She stuffed the receipt into her pocket. At least she could give Boone closure- and a clear shot. It was time for some good old satisfaction.

 

 

“Missus Jeannie? Missus Jeannie! Help!” Sloan called, voice shaky with faked fear as she hammered on the bastard’s door.

Shuffling footsteps sounded behind the door, followed by a bleary, confused Jeannie appearing in the gap.

“What’s going on?” she asked sleepily, rubbing at her eyes.

Sloan put as much panic in her eyes as she could. “You gotta see this. It’s an emergency, please!”

Jeannie rubbed her eyes again. “Let me get my shoes.” Oh, wow. Nice, Jeannie.

Sloan led her to the gate, which Jeannie unlocked, and to the hill beyond the dinosaur. “Look at that!” Sloan said loudly, pointing at positively jackshit.

Jeannie same to her side, peering down her pointed arm. “What am I looking at?”

She had given him enough time. “An eternity in hell. See you there, bitch.” Sloan turned on a heel towards the dinosaur and saluted at the maw.

“What-!”

Sloan cocked a finger fun at Jeannie May Crawford, dead woman. “Bang,” she said and clicked her teeth.

With a distant, resounding crack, Jeannie’s head exploded in a shower of gore, splattering Sloan with blood and gray matter. Her headless body toppled to the ground with a heavy thud, her empty neck gushing blood into the dusty soil.

“Rot in pieces,” Sloan spat, and headed back to Novac.

Boone was waiting for her when she pushed back into the roost.

“So it was her all along. How did I not realize? She- how did _you_ know?”

Sloan ran a hand through her hair, dislodging a piece of Jeannie. “For what’s it’s worth, I’m sorry.” She handed him the receipt.

His face went from confusion to sadness to raging fury as she watched. “That fucking bitch. I wish I could kill her again,” he growled, crumpling the note. “She sold and got my fucking wife _killed._ ”

“She’ll rot. And if there’s a hell, she’s there,” Sloan assured.

Boone collapsed back into his chair like he had aged a hundred years in a few seconds. “What the hell do I do now?” he asked, sounding somewhere between desperate and numb. Asking her. Asking the world. Whoever would answer.

Sloan shrugged and leaned her hip against the chair and joined him in staring out at the desert. “Learn how to grieve or run with a gun. I chose the latter.”

“Run where?” he questioned dully.

“Anywhere. Everywhere,” she replied with a shrug. And then, because she was a poor, sympathetic sonofabitch, “Come with me. I’ve got a target, a grudge, and hell to raise. You’ll learn from a pro how to run.”

A long silence. She thought he wouldn’t accept. “Okay.” Thankful that he could follow. That he didn’t have to stay in this dead end town with a homicide and his memories.

“Great. We leave in the afternoon. Now where can I find a shovel?”

She felt eyes on her as she dug the grave, watching her wince and gripe at her aching hand. Felt a scope pass over her head, watching her back. She was used to watching eyes, but for the first time in forever, she felt safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boone! They will be angst queens together, but I try to lighten the story while I can while maintaining its seriousness.  
> 


	5. Road to Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To gayvid_byrne! Who is an absolute sweet pea. 
> 
> Mild warning for very brief mention of attempted suicide.
> 
> But good news, this chapter isn't depressing as hell! Kind of!

_The wreckage of my past keeps haunting me_

_It just won’t leave me alone_

_I still find it all a mystery_

_Could it be a dream?_

_The road to nowhere leads to me_

Ozzy Osbourne

 

When Boone left his hotel room around noon to look for Sloan, he found her already sitting at the plaza fire, absently eating a box of Sugar Bombs.

“Morning sunshine,” she greeted easily in that rock sugar voice, barely sparing him a glance.

“Those things have enough sugar to kill you,” he said, taking a seat next to the strange woman. She was… unlike anyone he had ever met, though in that regard similar to Carla. But there were too many pieces to make a comprehensive picture, not yet. A witty drunk dead behind the eyes. A generous stranger offering aid. A vindictive hunter. A free woman who somehow knew Vulpes enough to want him dead- personally. That much was clear. He wondered how similar their stories were.

“They’ll have to get in line,” Sloan deadpanned, but closed the box and tossed it into the open duffel at her feet. Which was ninety percent ammo, from what he could see. “You all rested up? Raring to go?” Boone nodded, though eyed her critically. There were dark smudges under her eyes- well one of them. The other was fully darkened in a nasty, heartfelt black eye. Actually, she looked like she had been thoroughly pummeled, though her hat was slung low over her eyes. Not that it covered up her busted lip or the dark bruise coloring her jaw. And where the hell had she messed up her hand? He was pretty sure it was fine when she had stumbled in. On that note, who the hell forgot that they had broken their knuckles? They seemed to be bandaged and taped now, though.

He shrugged it off. Not his problem. “Where are you headed?”

“Where are _we_ headed. New Vegas Strip,” she replied, prodding at the fire with a stick. Not doing anything, just poking at it.

“And after?” New Vegas wasn’t far. “Or you only been running a week?”

That got a dark laugh. “No, I’m a professional, don’t worry. We’ll have you running until this is all nothing but a shadow on the horizon.”

He cocked his head, curious despite her aching promise. “How long?”

A particularly hard jab at the embers. “A decade. Ish.” She shrugged.

Jesus Christ. What made a person run for ten years? _Not your problem,_ a voice warned him. _Don’t buy in_. He’d be listening to that voice in the future. “So after New Vegas?”

“Dunno. Maybe west. Maybe headlong into the East. Maybe I’ll learn how to die, then.” The last part was muttered- not that it mattered. _Not your problem. Don’t buy in._ Hell, he was on the same downward warpath.

“So this target,” he prompted.

“Right,” she said, nodding. She raised her hat from her head to tap at a nasty, bloody circle on her forehead. “Shot me in the face, wore an ugly coat doing it. All very tasteless, really. I plan on returning the favor with greater sense. Maybe some pizzazz for show.” That made her smile, just a wicked ghost that flickered across her lips. An echo of a purer thing. And while she sounded mildly annoyed, it was just that. It didn’t have the same vengeful resonance that promised violence. _He’ll pay. In this life or the next._ Those had been words promising a messy murder. This was only skin deep, like it was nothing more than an inconvenient errand that had to be run. ‘Kill my shooter. Buy groceries.’

 _You’ll learn from a pro how to run._ Moving ever onward, it seemed, always outracing the past. He supposed he had to take a first step to run.

“Are we going to sit around all day or head out?” It came out harsher than he meant it to. Usually he wouldn’t care- too lost in that heavy emptiness that broke his back, broke his heart- but she did him a favor. A stranger. It was worth something. It was worth everything, but he would never, he decided, say as much. It was too much leverage. Let actions speak instead; he would follow her into hell, if that was where she headed next.

“You’re the one asking questions, bud,” she retorted and rose to her feet. “I’m just answerin’.” She seemed to have a knack for doing so. He’d asked _what now_ as he looked down at the headless end of Carla’s road, not expecting an answer. Expecting to rot like the dead he left behind. _Run with a gun_ had come like the word of God, words he could understand. _Come with me._ And like the lost man he was, he had followed to some semblance of a path.

“If I see red, I’m shooting,” he warned, rising as well.

She turned to look at him, sun a halo around her shadow-darkened face. All humor and ease had dropped from her expression like it had been shot dead, those disturbingly blue eyes sharp and cold with malice. The kind that never leaves, the kind that gave the soul a taste for bloodshed. That made it scream and scream for guts and gore until it was drowned out by gunshots. Until the screams on the outside matched the inside. He knew it well enough. He saw it in the mirror every day. “Good. That’s the way I would want to go down.”

She turned towards the gate and the open road beyond. “In a bloody mess of red justice.”

Boone couldn’t agree more.

 

They were barely on the road five minutes when the questions started. Boone added _curious_ to the hodge podge of pieces that were Sloan.

“Soooo,” she began, kicking at the dusty soil. Boone braced for trouble. “Tell me about yourself, Boone.”

He frowned as he searched the steep cliffs that rose on either side of them in shades of gold, brown, and orange. “Like what?”

She stretched her hands out wide in a broad motion. “NCR. Start with the hat. Always start with the hat.”

Boone rolled his eyes, but complied. “First NCR Recon. Sniper battalion. Saw a lot of action.”

“Saw? Past tense?” _Observant,_ he added to the list.

“Moved to Novac with Carla after my tour finished. Didn’t last long,” he added bitterly. They had been planning for a kid, in time. Just enough time, actually, for it all to go to hell.

“Yeah? What was she like?” Sloan asked, as if it was a completely mundane question. And he was grateful. He didn’t know if he could take more sad eyes watching him, waiting for him to break. He didn’t know if Sloan meant to say it like that, either. But she seemed smart enough for it not to be an accident.

Eyes on the eastern horizon, he answered. “A real hothead. If she had an opinion, she told you. Never had to guess with her.” It was nice, to think of her how she was instead of how she ended up. It was a final image that wouldn’t ever leave him, not with alcohol or drugs or anything else he had tried.

Sloan just smiled, eyes still fixed ahead. Like she was more than happy to hear about his white picket fence life burned down. “Why do you even care?” he asked, thankfully reining in his temper this time to just somewhat irritated.

That smile lessened and turned sad. A pang of guilt punched him in the gut, but it was a fair question. “I don’t… ah, whatever. Tit for tat, right? I don’t get on with people, not usually. Don’t trust ‘em. Makes a girl lonely as hell after a decade or so. So I took to listening, when I could. Look for the good I can’t seem to find. Maybe it’s avoiding me.” She frowned, disturbed at the thought, before perking back up. “So how did you meet?”

“Right…” he said, sidestepping _that_ massive land mine. “I… I met her while I was at the Strip on leave. She said I looked lost.” He remembered the way her green eyes had twinkled as she flirted, how her black hair had glowed in the low orange light like something beyond Earth. “She talked a lot,” he said suddenly, actually laughing a little. “Suited me fine, though. Never knew what to say. And listening to her, it could…” The smile that had crawled across his face uninvited curled up in her cold side of the bed to die. “Could make you forget.”

He wished he could forget the ending to their love story, keep the good. Keep her smiles and jokes and good times as if she’d never died. Sometimes he wished he forgot it all. Better to have loved and all, but some nights he was sure the empty space in him would swallow him whole, leaving only a dirty hotel room with too many empty bottles and the dirtier legacy of a sad man in his wake. Sometimes he wished for it. Once, he’d tried.

He was abruptly glad he was wearing sunglasses, because it hid his red rimmed eyes as his throat clenched painfully and his tear ducts threatened anarchy. But he rambled on, unable to stop now that he had started. “She stuck out, pretty much everywhere we went.” His voice was dead, the only piece of himself he could seem to keep in control. “Like she was from a different time. A better time. I never met anyone like her.”

And then he waited, for the inevitable questions. _What’s it like? Do you ever stop thinking about her?_ _Are you alright? What happened? How do you cope?_ Everybody wanted a play by play, wanted to cash in on the misery if only for something to feel. A quick high, a sense of worth and importance as they crooned useless apologies over him like a corpse at a viewing. Trying to be a part of healing but just being part of the crowd instead. Like grieving was a spectator sport.

But the questions never came. Well, not the question he expected. “What’s your favorite food?”

Boone veritably choked. “ _What?_ ”

“Easy question, come on now. We’re supposed to look after each other and you’re not instilling much confidence in me.” She had just… swerved right away from that invisible line between _okay_ and _fuck no, that hurts._ Like she knew exactly where it was.

He discreetly wiped at his eyes. “Why?” he replied indignantly, though he was infinitely grateful. “So you know if I’ll outlive you when you inevitably have a Sugar Bomb-induced heart attack?”

Sloan laughed loudly, the bright sound ricocheting off the cliff sides. “Yep, got me there. Though to be fair, I don’t usually get to eat them. Oooh boy, there was this one winter I was snowed in up in a mountain range. Locals had nothing but salted Yao Guai, since winter had come on fast. I thought I was going to starve after a month, because I couldn’t handle it anymore. I actually starved myself for a week so I could eat it again.” Her face wrinkled in good natured, if deep rooted disgust.

“Sounds like NCR rations,” he replied drily. “So how far north were you, then?” He had hardly ever left Nevada, save a trip to California and a tour in Utah, before the battle of Hoover Dam.

“Montana. Maybe Canada, at one point. Far.” He heard the unspoken _away_ tacked on at the end. She had fled north with purpose. But damn, that was _far._ Boone vaguely envied her.

“What’s it like? Nomansland, and all.” That far north, it was too much of a pain to march armies through and patrol the mountain ranges and extensive forests. The NCR and Legion preferred easy, flat ground to wage war on, and as such had left the north mostly alone.

Sloan shrugged. “Mostly people, just getting by. Doing a bang up job of it, even. There’s more people up there, too. Closest place to a good place I’ve found.”

“What made you leave?” Dumb question. She said herself she had started running a decade ago and never stopped.

To his surprise, she answered, even as her jaw clenched tight. “Legion’s push at Hoover Dam failed. Meant they might look for allies north. Wanted NCR protection. Don’t remember anything after that since I ate lead.”

“Maybe you should go back there after New Vegas. We can walk the frontline until it tapers out. Get some red justice and maybe a little peace. Seems like a win-win.” Without thinking, he had included himself in the distant future. Though he supposed it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. He didn’t know if he could leave the one person who he could tolerate as he grieved, who seemed inclined to help out. To put a gun in his hands and point, and a way to walk. What that meant, he didn’t want to think too hard about.

She hummed contemplatively. “True. Maybe. It’d give me a place to go.” A pause. At least she hadn’t mentioned his word choice. “But I was thinking I’d finally go take off Vulpes’ head off. Maybe then I can stop running.” For whatever reason, her tone of blunt detachment chilled him to his core. _Danger,_ something screamed. _A duffel full of more rounds than food, eyes full of murder. Danger!_

Boone agreed heartily. Danger indeed. Something out there had listened to his pleas for justice and sent him an avenging angel.

The little voice that was probably his sense of self preservation wailed in frustration.

 

They touched down in Boulder City around mid afternoon. The bombed out ruins seemed to be abandoned, until they rounded the corner.

A dozen NCR soldiers were stationed in a semicircle around a metal barricade leading to a majority of the city. At the sound of their footsteps, twelve guns swiveled in their direction.

For a second, Boone worried Sloan wouldn’t stand down, even with all the guns fixed on her. She didn’t seem like the type to let someone train a scope on her forehead. Would he raise his own weapon in her defense and against the NCR? Even just once?

He was saved from answering the question when she raised her hands in surrender. “Easy. Just passing through.”

A man stepped out from near the doorway of the barricade. “Guns back on the ruins!” he barked, striding for the pair. “Sorry about that,” he apologized when he pulled up in front of them. “We’ve got a situation with some Great Khans right now. The brass at McCarran ordered me to lock down the ruins until it’s been resolved.” He fixed his eyes on Boone. “You know how it is.”

Sloan’s head cocked to the side, allowing sunlight to cross the bridge of her nose. Boone noted absently that she had freckles in daylight. “Great Khans? What’s going on with them?” Completely ignoring the- Boone checked the pin on the man’s beret- lieutenant’s clear dismissal.

The lieutenant just sighed and ran his hand through his short beard. After a second of apparent internal debate, he spoke. “A patrol coming back from Novac yesterday when it came under fire from the Great Khans. They radioed for reinforcements, but instead of waiting for us, they chased the bastards into the ruins where they got caught in the crossfire. No deaths- not yet, at least- but they’ve got two of our own as hostages. And it’s not-” He glanced back the barricade, a weary kind of anxiety on his face. “It’s not a loss I’m willing to take. So we’re at a stalemate.”

Sloan’s eyes followed his, as if she could see through the metal to the mess beyond. “I’m a third party. I can negotiate,” she offered, all nonchalance. There it was again, that strange kindness she didn’t even seem to be aware of. She charged no fee, asked nothing in return. Just did.

The lieutenant’s eyes widened in shock. Boone figured he had probably looked the same yesterday. “Yeah? You’d do that, no bribing necessary, just like that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Did I stutter, lieutenant?”

He just smiled. “Just surprised, is all. Now normally, don’t get me wrong, I’d turn you down, being a stranger and all. But you keep good company, and I’ve got no better options. Alright, so their leader is a man named Jessup. If we hear shooting, we’ll be coming in, but it’ll probably be too late for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wow, thanks. But I can handle myself, don’t worry,” she assured with a click of her teeth. “I’ll be back. Probably. Boone, stay here. Even without the beret, you _stand_ like NCR.” He wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as an insult.

With that and a blase salute, she turned on a heel and headed for the barricade.

“Hell of a girl you got yourself there. I’m Lieutenant Monroe, by the way.”

“She’s not mine,” Boone replied, eyes on Sloan’s back as she slipped through the door. No swagger, just hard-earned confidence. A handful of hours together and she was already going off into shit without him. He was supposed to watch her back. He felt useless, sitting outside and twiddling his thumbs. And if it made him a _tad_ pissy, who could blame him?

Monroe’s eyebrows just raised with interest. “Yeah?”

Boone pinned him with a hard look. “She’s not anybody’s. And I doubt you could handle a woman like that.”

Monroe shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for looking, pal. But I’ll take your word on it. So, you on tour or what?”

“Not in NCR anymore,” he said bluntly, putting a clear stop to the line of questioning.

“After what happened with First Recon in Bitter Springs, I don’t blame you,” Monroe said anyway. Before Boone could bite his head off for it, he continued, “I was there, too. Nasty business. I almost left, after that. Makes you wonder about NCR, doesn’t it?”

Just for something to do with his hands, Boone fished out a cigarette. He lit up and took a long, calming drag before asking, “What made you stay?”

Monroe shrugged. “Figured they were doing more good than bad, especially with Legion to the East as our other option. Figured I’d be a better man next time. But I’m hoping I’ll never have to make the choice again.”

Boone didn’t have any good words for Monroe. Never was much good with them, anyway. So he did the next best thing. “Cigarette?”

Monroe sighed heavily. “God, yes.”

They had all of thirty seconds of peace, tobacco-lined smoke rising between them, trying to blanket reality in a haze. Then Monroe’s radio crackled. He pardoned himself to take the call, walking back amongst the soldiers, radio to his lips.

The negotiation couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes, but the tension weighed down the passage of time to a crawl. But at long last, the door creaked open, Sloan reemerging with the two hostages in tow. Though pale-faced and clearly rattled, the former hostages seemed to be relatively unharmed. Monroe, two men who appeared to be medics, and a few of the waiting soldiers descended upon the party, and the two privates were hauled away.

Boone reached Sloan’s side just in time to hear Monroe say, “-just got orders to take out the Great Khans, hostages or not.”

Sloan shrugged. “Go ahead. They’ve got no leverage and nowhere to run.”

Monroe’s face blanched. “But your deal-”

“Look,” Sloan said, cutting him off. “You’re NCR. You want to play the good guy, you want to do the right thing. So let me be the one to say they’ll only cause more harm if you let them go. They’re going to stay bad people, no matter what you do here.”

It did nothing to help Monroe’s deepening frown. “But that’s-”

“It’s life,” Sloan said bluntly. “You want the next raided town, the next funeral to be on your conscience? Can you live with that?” she demanded.

“Can you?” Monroe snapped.  
“ _Yes._ ” Horror colored Monroe’s face and pushed him an appalled step back. Boone wasn’t surprised- this, for once, matched up with his expectations- but he was a little taken aback.

It didn’t stop him from chipping in. “She’s right, Monroe. And this isn’t Bitter Springs. You didn’t start this. They brought this on themselves.”

“She made a deal!” he protested. “She said if they let the hostages go, the Khans go free.”

Sloan pinched the bridge of her nose. “My word, not yours.”

“That doesn’t make it right!”  
She sighed, the harshness draining from her features to something almost sympathetic. “I know. But believe me when I say I’ve made this mistake before. You think to yourself, they’re all people. They’re not good people, but they’re people.” She drummed her fingers against her forearm. “You think you can’t live with dirty hands. You think- you think it makes you less human. More like them. But then their next kill is on your conscience, and you gotta wonder: was my conscience worth it?”

She took a step closer to Monroe, looking up into his face. She raised her hands between them. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “You know why I wear gloves? Because every kill is a hard choice, and that makes it personal. It makes me need the distance. But that’s the price of doing what we do. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. I’m still learning to deal with it. But I figure, if I have to choose the good people or the bad people, I’m gonna choose the good people. So protect the good people, Monroe.”

Monroe’s gaze flicked between the two of them. “I pray to God this isn’t a mistake.”

Boone considered the situation for a long moment. Doing his best to make sure that it wasn’t. “I think it’s the lesser of two evils, here,” he said carefully.

The lieutenant looked at his hands for a long minute, clad in heavy gloves. “Right.”

 

Sloan didn’t flinch at the sound of grenades going off or the odd crack of gunshots taking care of the survivors as they continued down the road. But Boone knew to watch closely, this time. He saw the way her shoulders hunched, the way her head drooped.

“You didn’t want to kill Jeannie, did you.”

She shrugged. “I wanted her to pay. I needed her to. Justice had to be served. If not for me, then for Carla. She deserved what she got, but I’m glad I didn’t have to pull the trigger, yeah. But I would, if I had to. And I’d do it all again.” She shrugged again. “Dunno. It’s a weird kinda thing. Everybody likes revenge, but I don’t think anybody really enjoys the act of killing. Well, most people.”

And because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, he said, “It just makes you a different breed. A better one.”

“I wish it did,” she murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danger, Will Robinson.


	6. Escape Artist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For SaberAltered, radvictoriam, and Vulpa, because they listen to me talk at them. Also to rosa, because she is forever my moral support.  
> While this chapter has some nice moments, mind the tags. Sorry.

_My alter ego, he’s an escape artist_

_I’m feeling hard and hollow like paper mache_

_My alter ego, he’s in a jailer’s cage_

_He sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape_

_At every clock strike, he hears the jailer’s keys_

_And the doubt starts to sprout ‘til he’s on his knees_

_But he is singing, when the night is black_

_And he remembers it like it’s his mother’s call_

_To feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall_

_I want to feel it, I want to feel the fire_

_Of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles_

The Zolas

 

New Vegas shined like a beacon in the growing dark. Less than a mile out, Sloan and Boone stood, looking down on it. At the end of the road, quite literally.

Sloan had set on this path for justice. For herself. For _once_ . She deserved this. Goddammit, she _deserved_ to avenge herself. God knew she wouldn’t get it from the Legion. God only knew if she would ever be brave enough to confront them.

And what had she gotten for it? The smell of charred flesh in her dreams and an old wound torn brutally open. And Boone.

He looked down at the shining city with sad eyes. _“I met her while I was at the Strip on leave.”_

“You ready to whack a motherfucker?” Sloan asked. _Are you ready to walk through where you’ve been? Where this started?_ was what she meant, carefully avoiding any sentiment of babysitting pity and any synonym of _okay._ The way she- now they- ran, you were never okay. Only ever numb, if they got lucky.

Speaking of their Great Escape, she sort of couldn’t believe that she had let him come at all. Moreover, she couldn’t understand why he had stayed. The lieutenant in Boulder City had only proved that NCR didn’t like people like her or the way she did things. If he hadn’t sided with her, she would have wondered if Boone would have left her. If he had anywhere else to go.

“Always,” Boone replied, glancing sidelong at her. She had harassed him about the sunglasses as soon as dusk had started to set in and he was still wearing them. She understood the need for a barrier between him and the world, she really did, but it just wasn’t reasonable to wear sunglasses at night. “Are you?” he resposited.

“Yup,” she said, even as she hesitated. It felt good to have a cause again. A target. Then suddenly, less than a mile away, she was running out of tracks. And after, she would keep barreling on as she always did, directionless, a runaway train skidding in the desert sand. What then? Walk the line, as Boone had said? Or fight?

For the first time in forever, she had to decide. She was out of a job with no recollection of the specifics, no way of knowing how to pick it up again. The Primm courier station was gone, the man in charge dead.

But really, it all came down to her. After Nipton, it had all come rushing back. Abruptly it wasn’t a decade behind her, and she didn’t know how much longer she could run for. Not when Vulpes carried a torch for her and her stake, looking to rekindle the flames until they once again burned her heels. All this time later, and she was still screaming.

Yet underneath even that, more than the fear, more than the memories, he had brought back her sadness. Sadness for everything that had been stolen from her. For the years killed alongside her spirit. All of it. And with it, rage. Rage, rage, rage. The kind of rage that put her finger on the trigger and gleefully pulled until it was sated. Rage stronger than she had felt in years, that had sparked on that night under a new moon.

 _We will have our justice in life’s reprise._ The old slave song, the Broken Back Hymn. Words sung in the depths of hollowed out souls, hopes left only for the afterlife. Broken backs and broken people praying to God for something, anything.

But with her freedom and a gun, the question arose: why wait? She had no master, and there were no gods looking out for her people or for her. She had believed in God while she wore the collar. But her faith had gone up with the body smoke, and she turned her faith to the north star on the right. The slaves believed because they had to, had to believe in something after the misery. But Sloan had gone free into a miserable world and found nothing but the absence of pain. There were no miracles. Her continued life wasn’t a miracle, it was a fluke. Sloan had killed and hurt and run and died, yet there had been no justice and no smiting- for her or anybody else. No higher power to appease. Maybe God had died in the War, after mankind blew itself to smithereens. And if he was out there, he wasn’t looking out for Sloan or her people.

 _Her people._ Held together by tragedy, separated only by circumstance and distance. Maybe… maybe it was time to stop running. She wanted a cause, to finally die in a way that mattered? New Vegas might be the place to begin, to open a new chapter in her life.

No gods, no masters. Bite the hand that makes you grieve, bite the hand that tries to feed.

And it would start with the man in the checkered coat. Bite, bite, bite.

“Let’s go,” she announced, and started down the hill, Boone at her heels. There was hell to be paid, and hell to be raised.

 

The pair were exhausted by the time they got directions to the Freeside hotel(/brothel/casino/drug den), though neither said as much. But Boone had slowed down noticeably and Sloan’s relentless questions had subsided. _That_ had been interesting. With more than a little obnoxious wheedling, she had learned that he liked blackjack and Fancy Lads snack cakes, and hated Sunset Sarsaparilla (a borderline heretical crime in the Mojave, apparently).

So naturally the moment they entered the Atomic Wrangler and she saw a bar, Sloan ordered two with a shit eating grin plastered on her face. Boone raised an eyebrow, nonplussed. Sloan just waggled her own eyebrows in response, grin only growing.

Boone just rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh, despite their partnership having only begun that very morning. He turned to the woman behind the bar, which seemed to double as a receptionist’s counter. “Can we get a room, two beds please?” he inquired, sounding more than completely done with Sloan’s bullshit.

The receptionist/bartender wiped a glass clean as she spoke. “We got a room, sure, but only one left, and it’s a single. Will that work for you folks?”

The sarsaparilla suddenly wasn’t funny anymore. “No,” Sloan responded quickly, even as Boone said, “Fine.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, sort that out between yourselves and let me know.”

Sloan shot her a dirty glare before she rounded on Boone. “No,” she repeated, harsh even though her pulse raced.

Boone’s face remained frustratingly impassive. “I’m not sleeping in an alley. You can take the bed, it’s not a big deal. Don’t get worked up about it.”

His heavy handed words were enough to bring her rising fear back down to earth, almost instantaneously soothing her nerves. Just like that, he had cut through her budding panic with logic and a solution.

Sloan let out a shaky breath. “Right. Right, okay. You’re right.” Sloan turned to the woman. “We’ll take it.”

The woman gave them a slimy smile, more greedy than greeting. “That’ll be seventy caps.”

Sloan grumbled under her breath all the way up the stairs and to the room they had been directed to. Pushing the door open, Sloan frowned deeply at the room. “Seventy freakin’ caps for this?”

Boone pushed past and dumped his things at the foot of the dejected-looking couch that barely fit in the small room. “Yup.”

“This… sucks,” she remarked. Peeking her head back out, she yelled down the stairs. “Hear that? This _sucks!_ ”

“Welcome to the Strip!” someone yelled back.

“I’ll take the couch,” Boone said, kicking off his shoes.

Sloan huffed. “I’ll take the couch. You’re too tall for it,” she said, tone brooking no argument as she let her duffel fall to the floor with a rattling thump.

Boone, the contrary bastard, argued. “I’ll be fine.”

“Your back is gonna seize,” she shot back.

“I’m twenty-six, not sixty-six.”

Sloan rolled her eyes. “So help me _god,_ sleep in the fucking bed, or I’ll tuck in your lifeless corpse.”

Boone just raised that fucking eyebrow. “Resorting to idle threats?”

“You-” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “-are insufferable.”

“You seem to be suffering just fine,” he pointed out, a whisper of a almost forgotten smile on his lips.

“Oh ho ho, you’re funny, wise guy. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a fuckin’ sasquatch. Bed,” she ordered and pointed at the bed with her middle finger in an admittedly immature display.

Boone’s furrowed. “What the hell is a sasquitch?”

“A _sasquatch_ is an intolerable six foot-whatever man trying to sleep on a four foot couch,” she reposited.

Openly smirking now, he replied, “I don’t think that’s what it is.”

“Close enough, gigantor,” she snapped. “Do you exist to be a pain in my ass?” she asked, exasperatedly pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Yup. Thanks, I’ll take the bed,” he said, flopping onto it with a victorious, terrible smirk.

Sloan went still, sputtering. “You- you son of a bitch!”

That imperious fucking _eyebrow_. “That’s all you got?”

“I’m going to burn your eyebrows off, you lying, no good, manipulative, massive syphilis-ridden bent _cockcanoe!_ ”

Boone at the very least had the grace to look surprised. “Wow. Cockcanoe? That’s new.”

Sloan gave an irritated yell and pitched face first into the couch and proceeded to scream into the ratty cushions.

Underneath her frustrated shrieks, she could have sworn she heard him laugh.

 

 _The daycare was the only place she laughed._ The only place they were relatively safe. Even there, she was prone to fits of nausea, especially when the sun began to set. But it was good, for the Legion. Good, until they came for her.

Dozens of young, large eyes looked up to her as she tried to teach them skills that would keep them out of the labor units, or at the very least in a tent. Abigail had seen how long heavy laborers lasted. There was a reason slaving parties went out every couple of weeks. She should be grateful she was an officer’s wife. It was the only thing, apart from her skill set, that allowed her the position in the daycare.

Inevitably, a handful of the kids would fall behind, their stitches uneven and clothes poorly folded. It was with desperation she tried to mentor them, nausea roiling in her stomach through every moment. She refolded the clothes, keeping the secret for as long as she could, redid their work as she could. But eventually the older among them disappeared, some secrets impossible to keep forever. The days after were the days she secretly taught them the Broken Back Burial, the only grievance they would be afforded before their body went up in smoke. Though perhaps not immediately dead, they would be soon. So she taught them how to cry quietly.

With those exceptions, the days were kind. She told jokes as they did their chores, and they sang as they worked. Abigail and the older girls usually had infants in their laps or on their hips as they did so, mothers too busy (or too dead) to look after them. They would talk quietly, finding solace in each other. She tried to assure them being an officer’s wife was not so terrible. It was a lie, of course, but perhaps they could find a placebo kind of peace when the time came.

But at the end of the day, the slave chief would come with the setting sun, and she would have to return to Vulpes’s tent. She would cook dinner and eat in silence with her ‘husband,’ waiting for the awful moment the doctor came. Eventually she just went outside to wait for them to sedate her. Shortly after that concession, they stopped dosing her, delivering only the contraceptive.

It was both a blessing and a curse. She no longer lost sleepless hours to the sense of slipping away from reality in a confusing, terrifying haze, but she was painfully aware when Vulpes took his pleasure. The only difference was she could shake and cry.

The daycare was what kept her alive, knowing those kids depended on her. It was a lesson she had the misfortune to learn the wrong way. Once, in a fit of despair, she had smashed her face with the edge of a frying pan in an attempt to end her days. She had, unfortunately, survived, and returned to work in the morning with stitches through her eyebrow and up her forehead. Those eyes had looked upon her with fear, and a mass of children had run to cling to her legs and torso, crying quietly as she had taught them. She had realized that she was the only one giving them a shot at a livable life, and even that, she had proved with the wound, was harsh. So she sucked it up and held on.

After the incident, Vulpes had watched her closely, even going so far as to check in at the daycare on occasion.

And then… then he had seen her smile as the infant she often held onto called her ‘Ab.’ She had glanced up, feeling eyes on her. Blue eyes looked back, calculating, and she felt fear.

The contraceptives didn’t come that night. So she made a plan. It would take weeks for it to come to fruition. Too many weeks, but not too late. It would be the worst thing she had ever done, but it would be worth her freedom.

 

Sloan was shaken awake by an unfamiliar hand. A decade later, she still went completely still and held her breath. Crying made it last longer, and she couldn’t cry if she didn’t breathe.

“Sloan?” She cracked open her eyes at the name. _Sloan._ Not Abigail. Only then did she realize it was Boone calling her name, hand running hot instead of cold.

“What?” she snapped as she sat up, forcing him back and his hand away.

Boone frowned. “You were crying in your sleep.” He paused, mouth slightly open as if to say more. But he shrugged and backed off. “Heard they serve breakfast downstairs.”

She waved him off, temper fading as quickly as it had come. “Yeah, I’ll meet you in a minute.” He left without a word or a backwards glance, leaving her alone.

Sloan scrubbed at her face, wiping away her tears. “Fuck,” she muttered. She hadn’t had that dream in a long time. She took in a deep shuddering breath. “Get it together.”

Breakfast was mostly quiet, only the slurps of coffee and scrapes of forks filling the air between them. When both of their plates were clear, Boone spoke.

“I asked around. I don’t have a free pass with NCR anymore, so we can’t get into the Strip through the Camp McCarran monorail, so we’ll have to get a pass in. I don’t suppose you have two thousand caps on you?” he asked doubtfully.

Sloan snorted. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he replied with a shrug. “So we have two options: play debt collector for the Garretts- the owners of this shithole- or get in good with the Kings. I recommend the Kings,” he said, apparently finished as he took a sip of coffee.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Why the Kings?”

He held the hot ceramic to his lips, quiet. His sunglasses were perched on his nose despite them being inside, making his face unreadable. “They… they can admittedly be controversial. They refuse to fall in with NCR or Mr. House, the owner of the Strip. Or any power. But they do good for the Freesiders. But it’s your call.”

Playing debt collector would be easier, faster. But Boone clearly didn’t like the idea, and she wasn’t keen on losing him just yet. He was as good of an ally as she could ask for; on their way to New Vegas, he had picked off cazadores on their path from impossible distances with ease. At one point, he had headshotted the leader of a gang of highwaymen from such a distance, and the gang had considered their odds for all of a second before fleeing.

There was that, and… and he was a good man. She wanted those eyes to judge her for all she was fucking worth and for once, for fucking once, not find her lacking.

“Okay,” she agreed.


	7. Breaking Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry;;;; ao3 crashed when I finished it;;;; but it's here  
> and it's pain  
> sorry

_All alone, it was always there you see_

_And even on my own_

_It was always standing next to me_

_I can see it coming from the edge of the room_

_Creeping in the streetlight_

_Holding my hand in the pale gloom_

_Can you see it coming now?_

_I think I’m breaking down again_

Florence + The Machine

 

They pushed into the building proudly proclaiming The King’s. Inside, a crowd of men dressed in black and white ate breakfast loudly around the room, drinking and laughing and talking. The bright atmosphere glowed with camaraderie. Unlike the quiet of the Atomic Wrangler, mood dragged down by hangovers and lost caps, the room was alive with the sound of brotherhood. It reminded him of NCR mess, though even that paled in comparison.

A quick glance to the side showed Sloan smiling at the room, even as her eyes scanned for something. They landed on a man in the corner, leaning against the wall next to a closed door, sipping coffee. Seemed like a good place to start; it seemed the most likely place to find the King. Sloan, apparently, agreed, and they weaved their way through the crowd.

Sloan didn’t even get as far as asking to see the King before the man was talking. “What do we have here? Another petitioner to see the King?” he drawled in an unfamiliar accent, clearly infatuated with the sound of his own voice.

“I assume the King’s through that door?” Sloan asked, nodding at it.

The man smiled as if it was exactly what he wanted to hear. “Sure. How much is it worth to you to meet the big man?”

Boone raised an eyebrow, and glanced over to see Sloan doing the same. “Save it,” she replied, unimpressed. “I know when I’m being hustled. I’m just looking to do a favor for a favor.”

The man scowled, caught. “Fine. The King’s the bored-looking guy by the stage. Can’t fuckin’ miss him.”

Sloan flashed him a sickly sweet smile that made Boone cringe and swaggered through the door.

One of the Kings was playing a piano quietly on stage in front of a man dressed in a worn white suit jacket, a dog with significant metal enhancements curled at  his feet.

As they got closer, Boone could see the mess of papers in front of the man and a strained expression on his face as he traced the lines of text with a pencil.

In a show of surprising politeness, Sloan asked, “Is this a bad time?”

The King startled and looked up. He took in the pair, then sighed at her words and leaned back in his chair. “Always is,” he said in the accent common among the Kings. Turning to his dog, he said, “Look Rexie, someone new’s come to see us.” The dog picked up its head, but looked exhausted at the effort, eyes glazed over. “Poor boy. He hasn’t been feeling well lately. Take a seat,” he welcomed, gesturing to the seats. “I’m the King, as I’m sure Pacer told you. What can I do for you folks?” Uncommon, for a Freesider to so willingly offer aid.

Sloan dropped into a seat and leaned over to scratch the dog behind the ears. The King looked pleased at the action, though Sloan didn’t see it.

“Hoping I could do you a favor for a favor. I’m Sloan, that’s Boone,” she said. “Who’s a good boy?” she added to the dog.

“Maybe so, maybe so. You look like you might be able to handle yourself. Tell you what. Did you notice the bodyguards for hire near the gates when you entered Freeside?”

Sloan shook her head no, even as Boone said, “Yeah.” She glanced over him. “Wow. Glad I have you watching my back,” she said appreciatively.

The King laughed. “First Recon, I’d be grateful too. So,” the King said, tapping his pencil on the stack of papers. Looked like inventory, from what Boone could see; rows and rows of letters and numbers. He wondered what that was about. “It’s good money if you can stay alive long enough. Freeside’s not as safe as it used to be, so the money is well earned. Usually well earned, that is. Recently my men tell me that one of those bodyguards, fella named Orris, is making a little _too_ much money,” he explained.

“He’s making a killing in repeat business. Once someone hires him, they never want anyone else. If he’s a well dressed highwayman, I want to know. Specifically, I want you to hire him. Play the part of an innocent tourist and follow his lead. My boys are too well known, but I want to make sure this bastard isn’t being a bastard. So what do you say?”

Sloan shrugged. “Sounds easy enough.”

The King smiled wryly. “Call it a hunch, but I’m guessing things won’t go so smoothly.”

“I can take it.” As she stood, so did Boone, and she turned to him. “Gimme the beret. Don’t give me that look,” she added when his face dropped at terminal velocity into a frown. The thing was practically a part of him. It was a reminder of Bitter Springs; to be better. “No need for a bodyguard if I have a First Recon guy lookin’ after me. And I’m guessing you want to follow me around. You looked pissy when I ditched you in Boulder City.”

“I did not look ‘pissy.’”

Sloan sideyed him hard. “You absolutely did.”

“I don’t pout,” he argued.

“You absolutely do,” she assured.

“I absolutely do not,” he reposited.

“Give me the beret. Or are you gonna pout about that, too?” There was no way to answer that and come out on top, so he pulled it off his head and handed it over. “Thank you,” she said primly, zipping it inside her duffel.

They both turned to the King to bid him goodbye to see him smirking at the two of them. “What?” they demanded at the same time.

He just raised his hands in mock defense, even as his smirk split into a wide grin. “Nothing, nothing.”

They both huffed. “See you soon,” Sloan tossed over her shoulder, heading for the door.

They took a roundabout path around the back of Freeside so they could appear to be coming in. Luckily, no one bothered them, and they emerged by Mick and Ralph’s.

As they exited the alley, Boone a step behind Sloan, he heard her breath catch. Slumped against the wall was the body of a decapitated man, a wrench in his loose grip. Around the short stub of his neck was a scorched bomb collar. Clad in a gray piece of burlap, he had clearly been a slave of the Legion. Bits of gore- still fresh, by the horrid smell- plastered his chest and the brick wall.

As horrible as it was, it wasn’t the most gruesome thing he had ever seen. But Sloan seemed to be transfixed, her usually tan face completely bloodless.

“Sloan?” he asked, trying to pull her attention. She had gotten like this at the mention of sharing a room, too. She was clearly keeping secrets, but it wasn’t his problem. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to read into every word. He would watch her back, but not her words. That was his deal- don’t buy in.

But right now, they couldn’t move forward, not with the way she stood, frozen. “Sloan,” he said again, stepping in front of her field of view and blocking out the unfortunate man from sight.

Her eyes, usually cold razors, flicked up to him, wide with fear and shock. He hadn’t known she was capable of such a thing.

“Sloan,” he said once more, reaching to physically pull her from her head by her forearm.

It was the wrong move. As soon as his hand touched her sleeve, the fear warped into a terrifying fury, quick as lightning. And then her good hand was smashing into his nose in a mean right hook, sending him reeling and his vision white for a moment.

“What the fuck!” he barked, seeing stars and cupping a hand under his nose as blood began to gush from his probably now broken nose.

Sloan stood ramrod straight, looming over his hunched over form. At his height, he could only see her fists clenched at her sides, rising and falling with every seething breath. “Do not _ever_ touch me,” she hissed, all venom. He glanced up. She looked like she wanted to punch him again, but her eyes were wide again with that same fear.

“Jesus, fine!” he snapped back, pushing off his knees and back into an upright position. “Just…” he took a deep breath and jerked the cartilage back into place with a nasty crunch that made him sway on his feet, his grunt of pain almost a yelp. He might have blacked out for half a second. “Let’s just do the fuckin’ job,” he said, albeit weakly.

Sloan scowled and turned on a heel, hair flicking over her shoulder, and headed for one of the bodyguards. And like the poor, lost fool he was, he followed, nose streaming and throbbing in agony.

“You Orris?” she demanded, words sharp and clipped.

The greasy-looking guy took in the pair of them. “Yeah. You look like you need me.”

She cocked a hip. “Yup. Idiot didn’t mind himself,” she said, pointedly not looking at Boone. Like he was supposed to know all her secret fucking rules.

Orris grimaced at Boone’s quickly swelling nose with pity. “Alright. Two hundred caps gets you my watchful eye for a trip to the south gate. In order to ensure your safety, I need youi to follow my instructions to the letter. No detours. You go off sightseeing, and I go off to find another customer,” he warned.

Sloan handed over the caps with an ugly look, amplified by her true anger. Boone was sure Orris would have recoiled from if he wasn’t in the role of bodyguard.

“Let’s head out. Try not to fall behind.” With that, they left at a brisk walk. Boone held the collar of his shirt to his nose as Orris pointed out different structures to them, all while assuring them of his strength. Yeah, he was definitely playing it up.

It was near the end he put up a hand to stop them. “Slow down. I don’t like the look of some of those men ahead,” he said, nodding at the group of men huddled a ways ahead on the sidewalk. “Let’s take a different way around.” It sounded like a poorly acted script. When he looked to Sloan, though she didn’t look at him, she raised an eyebrow. She apparently saw through his bullshit as well.

“Lead on,” she said anyway, gesturing with none of the fear any normal threatened civilian would have exhibited. Orris was too busy remembering his lines, it seemed, to notice Sloan’s equally bad acting.

Boone looked around warily as they were led down a back alley. You were more likely to get jumped by a gang in an alley than out in the street; Kings usually helped out if they could.

He wasn’t even surprised when a band of thugs jumped from doorways and behind rusted out Pre-War vehicles. Orris pulled his gun, but Sloan stood still, not bothering to seek shelter. She might have even rolled her eyes. If she hadn’t punched him in the fucking face, he might have had to stifle a laugh.

So they watched as one by one, the thugs were ‘shot,’ four of them going down with only three shots. Yeah, right.

Orris returned, somehow _still_ oblivious to their disbelief. “Nothing to worry about,” he announced, smug. Probably thought he had bought their business for life. “If you had hired one of those other hacks, you’d be up to your ass in lowlife right about now.” Yup.

Sloan hummed, but didn’t reply, and eyed the thugs disdainfully as they headed for the Freeside Strip gate.

“Well, here we are. No worse for wear, are you?” Orris didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I trust that if you need to cross Freeside again, you’ll know who to hire.” And just like that, he walked off, confident in a scheme completed.

They waited until he had disappeared around a corner to head back to the King’s.

Sloan dropped into the chair without greeting. The King flashed a glance at Boone in question at her sudden change in attitude. He just discreetly shrugged, not wanting to call down Sloan’s wrath for ‘talking’ about her. Hell if he knew. She had been weird since she woke up, tear tracks down her face. But even then it had been a sad kind of quiet.  And then it was like she had flipped a switch, and it had turned to fury.

“Orris is a fraud. He fakes attacks on his clients and then plays hero.”

The King frowned. “So that’s how it happens. Okay, then. I’ll have some of my guys pull him off the street when no one’s looking. So what kind of favor were you looking for?”

Sloan’s fingers tapped on the tabletop. “Two passes into the Strip.” He glanced over, surprised. He had half thought she was going to kick him out on his ass. “And a piece of information.”

“Can do. What did you want to know?” he asked.

“Where can I find the man in the checkered coat?” she asked, eyes promising violence.

The King’s eyebrows shot up. “That’d be Benny Gecko. Usually at the Tops casino. One of the Chairmen, and practically owns that place. What kind of trouble are you in?”

Her smile was wicked, eyes dangerous. “What kind of trouble is _he_ in.”

“Right…” he replied slowly, almost carefully. “I can get those passes to you tomorrow. See you then.”

Sloan stood. “Thanks,” she said coldly.

The moment they entered the Atomic Wrangler, Sloan turned to him. Tossing him back his beret with a frankly rude degree of irreverence, she said, “Stay here. I have business.” It was a clear order.

Boone glowered. “You realize I’m supposed to watch your back, right?” That he wasn't  _really_ hers to order around?

“I’ve gotten along twelve years without you or anybody. _Stay,_ ” she snapped, and strode off to the counter without waiting for an affirmation.

 

She returned to their room a few hours later, knuckles bloody around the neck of a large, half empty whiskey bottle. It didn’t take a genius to guess where she’d been or what she’d been doing.

The bathroom door slammed shut and the lock clicked behind her without a word.

For all she had done, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. As soon as she could justify it, she had turned to pointless violence. He hadn’t known her long, but he had expected better. Had thought she was different.

He had been wrong.

Did it matter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a filler chapter, unfortunately, because there were things to set up for the next chapter. It just takes a lot of words ;_;  
> 


	8. Farther Than the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has a scene in which Sloan contemplates suicide very briefly, and decides against it wholeheartedly. She is in a very bad state of mind.If you think this chapter will trigger you, skip the writing between the line break.

_ This is my resolve _

_ I do not like what I have become _

_ No more compromise, I will be gone _

_ Free to fly farther than the sun _

_ All of your defiance sets you free _

_ And brings you back to life _

Alter Bridge

 

Sloan slumped in the bathtub, the whiskey cradled to her chest the closest she had to family. There was a pleasant blur over her thoughts, but not enough, never enough, especially now. She knocked back another swig and pretended the following noise was a cough at the familiar burn and not a sob.

That… that  _ rage _ had ignited before she could think to hold it back. Rage born from the fear she could never seem to outrun. When Boone’s hand had unwittingly grasped her brand, her blood had run cold. Cold. She was always cold, now. Hell was hot sun and cold hands. And in a knee jerk reaction, her survival switch had flipped.

Ten years ago, there had been two months that she would always try to forget. Endless months after in which that switch had been flipped. Months that showed her who she was when push came to shove. She couldn’t look herself in the eye after that, avoided her reflection and the image that everyone else saw when they looked at her. Scarred face, skin tan from running for the horizon. Steel blue eyes cold. 

_ Blue beseeched blue. Merciless hands gripped tight and squeezed, strangling. Shock. Fear. Panic. Those cold hands pulled at her wrists, her hair, gripped her arms as she strangled the life out of him. Those icy blue eyes were shockingly human as he thrashed underneath her, his face going red, then purple. Distantly, she thought the blood-swollen purple contrasted his eyes nicely. _

_ She had imagined this moment for weeks. Imagined the things she would say. She would teach him to search the stars above them for some reason why, some kind of Divine Plan written there that she knew from experience he wouldn’t find. She would tell him his crimes under the watching eyes of God, judge, jury, and executioner as she sent him to his justice. _

_ But in the end, she had stayed quiet, expression flat as she tried to crush his trachea. She didn’t feel a single thing, couldn’t taste the sweetness of vengeance. Everything that had built up to this precious moment made way for one thought-  _ this is taking too long _. It was with cold, cold eyes she drove a knife into his gut. No disgust, no righteous fury, not even warped pride. Just the thought that he had to stay down to give her the best head start.  _

_ So she ran. Nights in a row passed without sleep. And then when she had awoken to Canyon Runner leering down at her, chains in hand. But even then, the fear had stayed dormant as she was hauled back the way she had come.  _

_ A day later, covered in gore and reeking of body smoke, Freedom red and slick in her hands, she bared her teeth in a bloody smile. _

Sloan wasn’t smiling now. She had blocked out their cries for mercy, their blubbered promises to repay their debts in favor of sating itchy knuckles again and again and again. One of them, Grecks, had cried as she drove kicks hinto his fetal form curled in the dirt. It was only then she realized she had become everything she hated. 

* * *

 

Sloan hauled herself from the bathtub just in time to empty her breakfast into the toilet. And it was Vulpes’ fault. He…  _ he _ had made her this way.  _ He  _ had bred such a seething hatred into her. He had broken something in her, broken  _ her _ , just like he’d always wanted to _. _ And now she was a monster, just like him. She was no better than the man she had the audacity to hate. She was such shit. She didn’t deserve to walk out of the Goodsprings graveyard, didn’t deserve the miracle.

Why had she? She had done more than enough to deserve the bullet to the brain. So why hadn’t it stuck? 

Maybe Death was trying to make her suffer, painfully aware of the damage she had wrought, leaving a warpath half a country long. Maybe it was up to her, in the end, to do something right. To take the dice out of Lady Luck’s hands, take herself out of the picture before she could hurt anybody else.

* * *

 

She peeled her cheek off the porcelain to curl up on the floor to look at Freedom, gleaming in the meager light, fastened to her boot. Her most important possession. What she had fought so hard for.

If she gave up now, it would be like she had never escaped. It would make Freedom and everything she had done to get it be in vain. 

There was no redemption in a godless world. Karma was not counting. But she could give herself worth without divine intervention. Could be a person she could stand being. Maybe then she could sleep easy, could face the next day head on. Maybe one day she could forget the comforting burn of alcohol blurring out her mistakes.

And had she made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Bad ones. But everybody made mistakes. She had choices, here. And if this was her choice, if Fate or Death or maybe God was giving her a chance, an option, she would choose to fix it. She was not the sum of her parts; there was time to change. Maybe not all at once, but she could start. 

She still hated herself, likely would for a while yet. But it was just another storm to weather. She just had to keep walking. It was the only way to find the eye of the storm. There she would find if not happiness, then peace. Peace in the fact that the effort was made. 

The time for sleep was over. How many days had she spent running away, hiding in unconsciousness? Ten years of running and she had managed to never move on. It was time for change. It was time  _ to  _ change.

Cautiously, Sloan peeked out the bathroom door. Their hotel room was empty, Boone gone. Was he really, truly gone? Had he seen her for what she was and left? Not that she blamed him. Not only had she proved herself to be a general shitbag, she had probably broken his nose.

She cringed inwardly. No matter what he decided to do, she owed him an apology. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed out of the room. This was fixable. Most things were.

The lunchtime clamor rose from the main floor as Freesiders sought a break from the high noon heat. Sloan lingered on the second floor, looking over the balcony that ringed the main room. There, in the corner, sunglasses perched on his nose and nursing a beer, was Boone. Right. She could do this. She had faced infinitely worse things.

She slipped down the stairs and sidled up to the front counter. Francine Garret wandered over, perpetually wiping down a glass. She hoped it was a perpetually clean rag. “Somethin’ I can get you?” Francine asked, the offer almost predatory.

Sloan tugged nervously on her hair. She missed her scarf. “Um. Ice.” Francine’s brows rose in surprise. Anything that took extra electricity to store was expensive, anything frozen moreso. “Three bags. Please.”

Francine shook her head as if to bring herself back to extorting a customer. “Alright, that’ll be thirty caps.”

Sloan huffed, but if that was the price of an apology, so be it. She waved a hand. “Fine, fine.” Dishing out the caps, leaned against the (spotless, she noticed) counter as Francine retrieved the bags of ice. They were already sweating in their plastic bags despite the fans rattling away above them. “Thanks.”

Shuffling over to Boone’s table, she deposited the bag on the table, eyes low, her heartbeat tumbling through her veins anxiously. “Sorry for breaking your nose,” she muttered. 

She felt more than saw his eyes on her. They rested heavy for a long, long moment with the weight of something more than a man. “Take a seat.” It wasn’t a request.

Uncharacteristically meek, she slid into the chair opposite. Waiting for the blow.

“What happened today can’t happen again. If it does, I leave.” But not yet. He hadn’t left her, not today. She let out a heavy, relieved sigh. Thank  _ god. _

It shouldn’t matter, a little voice reminded her, somewhere between scared and disgusted. She had been alone a decade. But Boone… Boone was better than her. Maybe it wouldn’t have meant something yesterday. But that was yesterday. Now she was grateful and so, so relieved that he had decided to stay. As long as he followed her, she was doing something right. Or at least not obtusely wrong.

“Thank you for staying at all.” It hurt her pride to say as much, but not nearly as much as getting your nose broken. Which, up close, it definitely was. She looked up, finding his gaze through the impassive lenses of his shades and holding it. “I fucked up. Even I can see that. But I’m going to fix this.” Instead of gripping his hand like a normal person, like she almost wanted to, she gripped the body of his bottle, under where his hand held onto the glass neck. “I’m going to fix  _ me. _ I will. I’m sorry again about your nose.” With that, she made for the door. She had wasted ten years; wasting another second to get on with it was just ridiculous.

 

At her approach, Grecks scrambled to his feet and backed away. “L-look, lady! I paid you! I haven’t worked up a debt in one fuckin’ hour! If- if you’re looking for a punching bag, it ain’t here!” he challenged, voice quaking even as he raised his chin defiantly.

Sloan bit down on the sharp ache in her throat and raised her free hand in a show of peace. “I know. I know. I- I came to apologize.” With her other hand, she held out the ice. “Can we talk?”

His good eye narrowed, taking her in. Scanning for deceit, for some kind of elaborate scheme to further disfigure his face. But he eventually nodded, albeit warily. “I hope I don’t regret this,” he muttered, not entirely to himself.

Sloan handed him the last bag of ice. Santiago- the other debtor- had taken his and promptly told her to get lost.

Grecks took the bag, and she took a seat against the wall. Looking up. Giving him the choice to sit or kick her face in, like she had his. She hoped he’d choose the former, but she knew she deserved the latter.

But he seemed to recognize the eager sincerity in her face and joined her, slumping against the wall with the weariness of a ghoul that had outlived the natural human lifetime and was left tired. “You probably can’t tell, but I actually look worse than usual,” he joked and raised the ice to his face.

Sloan flinched, but smiled weakly. “I am sorry. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I’d like to explain myself.” Grecks only gestured broadly to the space around them.  _ We’re sitting here, aren’t we? _ “Right. I... “ She hadn’t thought this far ahead. “I-” she laughed. “I’m pretty fucked up. A… companion of mine, I guess, we had a, ah, issue. I took it out on you.” She drummed anxious fingers over her brand. “I… I realized I was everything I hated. I was, frankly, an ass. So. Not that you care, but I’m trying to change.”

Grecks nodded. “Hey, good on you, lady. That’s something.”

“It sure is,” she agreed. Especially for her. “I think…” she wondered aloud. “I think I’ve been this way for a long time. And I don’t want to be. I want to be anything but this.” Her fingers tightened on the hidden lines of ink, mimicking a colder touch. “But I… fuck, I’m scared. Changing means facing everything I’ve been running from. And I’ve been running a long, long time. I have to- fuck, I have to relive it all, figure out where I went wrong. Figure out what I’m going to do about it. Hell, maybe even try to give up alcoholism, because that sure as shit ain’t helping,” she said, laughing even as her hands began to shake. “I need to-”

She fell silent. She needed to  _ feel  _ again. Needed her humanity back. Needed to do something for herself, not for survival or to get a town to let her stay or to keep a gang off her back. For her. She needed, Sloan realized, to kill Benny. Empathy as he shot her in the face- he wasn’t a sadist, wasn’t the embodiment of evil. But he was wrong, had wronged her, and she wanted vengeance. She wanted to enjoy it and to feel disgust at taking a life. She wanted to value life, both the price of taking it and the worth of her own. Maybe it was sick, but he  _ had  _ shot her with intent to kill. She could repay the favor without sadism, keep him from hurting anyone else.

She didn’t say as much aloud. Turning, she reached into her duffel. In a heavy leather pouch were the caps Francine had paid her for collecting debts. She tossed it to the ghoul. “Take this. Try not to work up a debt this time, bud,” she advised.

Grecks’s good eye widened in surprise, and his lazy eye made a valiant effort to follow suit. “That’s a lotta caps,” he remarked, weighing the bag in his palm.

“That I don’t deserve. It’s yours.”

He shot her a tentative smile, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. And shit, she felt sort of alright. Honestly alright, not the superficial numbness she had been running on for God only knew how long. 

It was a start. But there was one more thing she needed to do. It would be the first of many ghosts to lay to rest.

 

“I need your help with something. But you can’t ask questions,” Sloan said.

Boone looked up from his beer warily. “I thought we just had a talk about this.” 

Sloan sighed, running a hand through her hair, wishing for the umpteenth time she had her damn scarf. “This isn’t like that. Just trust me, alright? Also, we need a shovel. And we’ll probably both need a shower.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought. 

Ah, Boone’s infamous eyebrow quirk. “You’re doing nothing to assure me, here.”

“But are you coming?”

“Yeah.”

Sloan smiled.

 

“I’m definitely taking a shower,” Boone announced, the body of the decapitated slave slung over his shoulder. Clearly his time away from First Recon hadn’t hindered his fitness at all.

“Mhmm,” Sloan agreed, shovel in hand. Boone huffed, but didn’t reply. Behind them, the gates to Freeside clattered shut. They walked out past NCR sharecropper fields and small houses to a stretch of unclaimed land. Sloan wandered the area, searching for a place that felt right. She settled on a place in the shadow of the elevated interstate, away from the burning sun the slave had no doubt been accustomed to. Satisfied, she broke ground.

Boone supervised, AKA didn’t work, sitting next to the deepening grave, legs sprawled out. Though considering the fact that he had carried the body, she could forgive his work ethic. 

“You know, if I could ask why this was so important, I probably would,” he said blandly. Like he wasn’t asking the question at all. Which he definitely was.

Sloan snorted. “And I’d tell you, hypothetically, to mind your own business.” She sighed. “Then I might tell you- hypothetically- that it’s important to me.” She speared the shovel into the dry soil for what felt like the millionth time, but leaned on the handle instead, looking up at her companion. “But I was serious. Am serious. That’s all you get to ask. No more questions. Not yet. There are just some things I don’t want to explain. Don’t want to think about, not right now. Not to you. Maybe not ever to you.” She sounded tired. She felt tired.

Boone nodded. “Fine.”

“Fine.” She returned to shoveling, sweating in the heat blistering sun despite the shade, sweat soaking her long sleeve in wet patches. Ew. 

After a minute of sweaty silence, she began to sing.

It began raspy and quiet; Boone was an outsider. She had never sang with an audience, per se. She had always been joined by a multitude of voices.  _ “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan, what do I see, coming for to carry me home.”  _ It was a work song, a song that could be heard, unlike the damning cries of the Broken Back Hymn. It was everything the Legion expected; begging for death. For a sweet chariot to guide them away, spurred by a band of righteous angels. 

Boone, recognizing the familiar Old World tune, hesitantly joined. But when she shot him a pleased smile, both of their voices strengthened. It was a kind of comfort she was familiar with, the echo of two lost souls.  _ “A band of angels coming after me, coming for to carry me home.”  _

Close to an hour passed before the grave was sufficiently deep so as not to be scavenged by hungry nightstalkers. Together, they carefully lowered the nameless body into the ground, eyes facing west. 

“Your days are over,” Sloan whispered. Gripping the shovel tightly, she choked back tears. At least he got the privilege of being buried. Most slaves were burned, scorchhouses churning out smoke at all hours of the day, a dark smear in the sky visible from camp. If the wind blew the wrong way, they could smell it, too. And god forbid a slave got a funny idea of freedom, they were taken and beaten in one, reminded between pounding fists where all slaves ended up. But it was a scorchhouse that she had reclaimed her freedom in, and a scorchhouse this man would never have to see. 

Past a tight throat, she piled up the dirt again to the minor tune of the Broken Back Hymn. The secret song of the slaves, their only rebellion.

_ “Just as the sun rises in the morning _

_ the sun, too, will one day set _

_ Brother, don’t you worry, just get your rest _

_ these lives were never built to last. _

_ One day your days will be over _

_ and all your troubles past.” _

She could feel sympathetic, if curious, eyes looking as her own streamed freely. There was no shame in crying now, never in crying for the dead.

_ “Once in water, and once in ash _

_ Our Lord will come again for us at last. _

_ Will cleanse the land _

_ and take our hands _

_ to guide us on to purer shores. _

_ The wicked will fall _

_ and the wretched will rise _

_ We’ll have our justice _

_ in life’s reprise.” _

When the ground once again laid flat, she at last sang the final verse. There were two options that had surfaced over the years: the Deliverance and the Burial. Deliverance, for a runaway. It would have been sung for her after her escape. Burial for the obvious.

Sloan sang the Burial like an old friend, or perhaps like whiskey. Familiar. Burning. She had certainly tasted the words an agonizing multitude of times, goodbyes like so many ashes on her tongue.

_ “Now your days are over _

_ and all your troubles past. _

_ Port at purer shores, brother _

_ And receive your justice at long last.” _

Sloan looked up to the sun, trying to scorch away tear tracks. Trying to find answers, perhaps, if she could just bear the pain. Reasons why their suffering was so senseless.

No more. She was tired. Tired of singing requiems, tired of living an elegy. Tired of being scared. It was time to take a stand.


	9. The Last Pale Light in the West

_In my hands, I hold the ashes_  
_In my chest, a fire catches_  
_In my way, the setting sun_  
_And I will go on ahead free_  
_There’s a light yet to be found_  
_And I ask for no redemption_  
_Still I see a faint reflection_  
_And so by it, I got my way_  
_The last pale light in the west_  
Ben Nichols

 

Boone was really starting to think he would never figure Sloan out. Just when he thought he was starting to understand the woman, she would change on him again. He’d given up on trying to expect her next move or mood at this point.

He glanced at her across the small table, the cries of drunken revelry filling the Atomic Wrangler’s lobby. She rolled the glass rim of a half-empty sarsaparilla bottle around on the table, condensation tracking across the surface in curving lines. For once, she had taken the thick, stained leather gloves off. Long fingers curled around the bottle’s neck, pale like a fish’s belly. Clearly she didn’t take the things off often.

For probably the tenth time since they met, he wondered what had happened. And for probably the twentieth time, he reminded himself he shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care because that would make his true intentions in her company very, very hard. And he’d had his share of hard. This was supposed to be easy. _Fuck._

But there was something that drew him inexplicably to her presence. Maybe it was the very unpredictability that kept him constantly braced. Maybe it was the way she had stared into the sun talking about justice, sunlight turning her gold even as she squinted and cried. And maybe, fuck _maybe_ , it was the twinge in his chest when she said _port at purer shores._ Like there was nothing left to do but leave these shores behind, nothing left in her that wanted to stay. And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was foolish, but she had made him smile for the first time in months. She dulled the pain better than whiskey, better than wine.

Oh, he was so fucked.

“Boone?” Sloan said, sounding like she had said it more than once. “You good?”

He rolled his shoulders, pulling his mind back to their little table. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Sloan frowned, but let it go. “I was saying I was going to stop by the King’s tomorrow. I… I’m not quite raring to get my hands bloody just yet.” _I’m not ready,_ she said. “Also, it probably _isn’t_ my brightest idea to walk in, shoot a Chairman, and expect to walk out. I could use some friends in this town.”

Boone nodded, leaning back in his chair. “It certainly wouldn’t count against you. But that aside, the King said this guy-”

“Benny,” Sloan supplied.

“Right, Benny,” Boone agreed, “haunts the Tops. Which is a bit of a problem for us.”

Blue eyes slitted to razors as she squinted at him. “Why?”

Boone spread his hands, figuratively laying out the issue. “They make you check in your guns, and have the security to make you do it. That said, Benny is a Chairman. He’ll be able to and will have guards that _are_ armed. See the problem?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sloan said, crossing her arms and slumping back, looking like a petulant child whose plans for homicide had been cancelled by her mom. “Well _fuck_ ,” she said emphatically. “That’s no good. Talk about a wrench in the plan.”

He grunted in agreement and took a swig of his beer. “They don’t really give you a pat down though. Bad for business, getting too handsy, ‘specially with the women. But that’s about all we got. The rooftops are all locked down to civilians, so people like me can’t do what I do to people like him. So unless you can get him alone, plan’s shot.”

Sloan’s frown deepened, and her eyes went dead. She tapped the bottle on the table contemplatively, or maybe in decision. “Get him alone.”

“Yup.”

She sighed. “I can do that.” She stood up and headed over to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey.

 

 

“Every bit helps, thanks,” Sloan said, pushing out of the tent and into the Mormon Fort commons.

They were running recon on the down low for the King, since Freeside didn’t know their faces just yet. A good thing, too- apparently NCR had been getting nasty with Freesiders, especially the Kings. Which really wasn’t a surprise; NCR didn’t like being questioned, even if they were still relatively new in town, having rolled in just in time to clash with Legion at Hoover Dam. Boone was only surprised that they were being so blatant about it.

That, and the fact that Sloan was getting involved at all. She had gone to bed last night sloshed enough to be a fire hazard. Boone couldn’t blame her. He had a pretty good idea of what she was planning on doing to get Benny alone. What he didn’t understand was why she was putting herself in the middle of what was essentially a turf war. She had said it herself just last night- she needed friends in high places. Getting on NCR’s shitlist was basically shooting herself in the foot and hanging up her own wanted poster.

Though this- this was a safe question to ask. “Why are you bothering to get caught up in this mess? I doesn’t strike me as your MO. If you wanted to kill time,, we could’ve hit a casino,” he pointed out.

Sloan glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “People are getting hurt, and it’s only going to get worse,” she said as if it should be obvious. “Power struggles are always the same.”

“No, I get that,” Boone said, adjusting the strap of his rifle where it sat across his shoulders. “What I don’t get is why _you_ are getting involved. Doesn’t seem worth the trouble. Besides, you’re here for one thing. You stumbled into the Mojave, and you’ll stumble out of it once you’ve finished.” What it came down to was that he was jealous. She got to turn a blind eye and never see the same place twice. Never had to relive memories, choices, fears where they had happened. Didn’t have to get familiar with the graveyard, the echoes of life past, like the rest of them. Didn’t have to walk the same old ground again and again. He didn’t understand why she would willingly take on the stress, the mess, hell the possible guilt of getting involved. That was why running was so easy- you carried nothing but what you could leave with.

Sloan turned to face him now, and came to a complete stop, forcing him to a halt as well. When he tried to guess what she was going to say, her face remained unreadable. Dammit, the reason he had stopped trying was because he _couldn’t_. Yet here he was, trying to decipher her again.

“I’m going to stumble out of it,” she repeated. Not venomously, but not kindly either.

Boone shrugged uncomfortably. “You said you’ve been going a decade. That’s a hard habit to break,” he said slowly. This was exactly what walking through a minefield felt like. He should know.

Sloan cocked her head, eyes boring into his. Like she could see past his green eyes, and was talking to something beyond. Something that wasn’t quite the person looking back at her. Which was unnerving, to say the least. “I think a decade means it’s about time,” she said cryptically, but didn’t elaborate.

He had a feeling she meant more than running. That it was time to change. And there was that fucking _twinge_ again. He couldn’t even will it away in good conscience.

“Whatever you say,” he said nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t having an existential crisis. _Safe question, my ass._

 

 

They headed for the NCR soup kitchen. A Follower doctor at the Mormon Fort, Julie Farkas, knew one of the coordinators passing out food. That, and if they wanted answers about the tension that rose with the NCR’s population, it only made sense to go to its hub.

Julie had given them the codeword to get past the soup kitchen’s front doors. _Hope_ was the word. He wondered if it was providence or propaganda. It was certainly like the NCR to say they were the new hope of the West, that the NCR way was the only way with a future. But to Boone, it was a also a reminder of every step he had taken from Novac. From his dirty room, from his place scanning the horizon for danger. It wasn’t hope, exactly. But it was something. And after a lot of nothing, _something_ was, well, something.

Wouldn’t it just be life, though, to see a sign in absolutely nothing. _Don’t buy in_ , he reminded himself again. _You’ve got nothing left to pay with._

“Hope,” Sloan interrupted. He jerked his head up, but she was speaking to two men. Though they were dressed casually, it was clear that they were NCR guards. Sloan had been right in Boulder City- NCR men had a way of standing, all straight backs and careful eyes. Huh.

They pushed into a dingy room that looked like the whole place was about to collapse. An open doorway revealed half of it already had. The ‘kitchen’ was musty despite the dry air, and smelled disconcertingly of mold, canned meat, sweets, and the kind of body odor that suggested a scarcity of bathing among the dirty civilians. Lovely.

Sloan took the lead- he was the one following her across the Mojave, after all- and bypassed the line leading to the counter entirely. She sidled up to the woman handing out food and leaned against the counter that seperated the woman from the crowd. Boone settled against the wall behind Sloan.

“Elizabeth Kieran?” she asked, tipping up the brim of her hat to look at the woman fully.

The woman- Elizabeth- gave a stilted smile. Like she knew something was up and wanted no part in it. “Welcome,” she greeted, going for cheery but falling noticeably short. “There’s food and water here for any citizen for the NCR. Please, have some,” she said, gaze flickering nervously between him and Sloan. _Please, take the food and just leave._

Sloan just draped her form across the counter, settling in. _I’m not going anywhere until I get what I want,_ she replied wordlessly. “You in the military?” Sloan asked, in an easy tone, completely ignoring the food stacked on the counter.

Elizabeth’s eyes glanced to the door, where the guards stood beyond. “Uh. Yes. I’m a major in the supply corps, which is where this food and water comes from,” she said. _I’m trying to do good here. Don’t make this ugly,_ it begged. She pushed the food a little closer to Sloan in offering.

Sloan ignored it. Boone could hear in her next words that disinterested expression that could somehow pin a person as well as a knee to the back, which just shouldn’t be possible for someone shooting for disinterest. “You don’t serve Freesiders?” she asked, sounding bored yet like she was looking for some interesting gossip.

The major’s jaw clenched. “Look. It’s not really a pleasant topic of conversation. Let's just say we have our reasons.” Her eyes actually had a fire to them now, Boone could see, and her voice a sense of indignation.

Boone could tell Sloan saw it too. Her shoulders pushed back incrementally and she leaned in an inch or two. She was going in for the kill. “Julie Farkas told me to ask,” he heard her murmur. “Said it was important.”

“You know Julie?” she hissed, glancing back at Boone again. Turning, she signaled another NCR man over. Boone held his breath, ready for action, but the man just took over Elizabeth’s place as she dragged Sloan over to him. He couldn’t help but notice that while Sloan flinched, she didn’t start swinging.

Before he could think too hard about it, Elizabeth was talking again in low tones. “Not everyone-” she cut another glance around the room. “-sees eye to eye with the Followers. But they’re okay in my book, mostly because of her.” Another furtive glance. Suspicious woman. “Look, if you really want to know, we sent an envoy to the King offering to coordinate a relief effort. So we could actually, you know, _feed_ his starving people. But our envoy got beaten all to hell, only barely survived. My superiors scrapped the mission, and rightfully so.

“So you want to blame someone? Blame the Kings. Besides, there’s not enough supplies to go around, even if I wanted to serve the rest of Freeside. Which I don’t. NCR is stretched too thin fighting Legion to go hunting for supplies right now.”

Sloan frowned, as did Boone. “It’s that bad?” she asked, speaking for the both of them. When he had left First Recon, things had been tight, but not anywhere near this level. NCR was always for the people, however they went about it. The fact that their people were going hungry was a testament to the severity of the Legion threat in the East.

Elizabeth nodded. “Legion’s been running more raids, from what I’ve heard. Now, keep in mind I’m in supply corps, but the talk is that they might be gearing up for another push.” She crossed her arms in a show of distaste, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. She was scared. And why shouldn’t she be? She was the Legion’s worst nightmare, a high ranking woman in the army.

Sloan paled, but nodded. “Explains why they were as far West as Nipton.”

Boone spun to Sloan. He could feel his mouth gaping like a fish out of water, or maybe just a real corn-fed idiot. “They were in Nipton? When?” he demanded.

Her lips thinned, some door in her eyes slamming shut. “Guess you wouldn’t have heard. Yeah, I had a run in with them the evening I showed up in Novac.” The night she had wandered down the road, drunk and wild and vicious. The night she rattled at the fence in desperation. Like she was being hunted. “Vulpes torched the place, crucified the town.”

Elizabeth gasped, blood rushing from her face. Boone meanwhile saw red. “That fucker was that close, and I _missed_ him?” he spat, everything coiled tight like a cobra, waiting for something to lash out at.

Sloan didn’t look all that bothered by his rage. “He had his _contubernium_ with him. They would have gunned you down so fast your decapitated head would’ve spun in the dirt.” Her tongue said the Eastern word with ease, the Legion’s language sounding familiar in her mouth.

Distantly, he heard Elizabeth say something about filing a report and walking away. But all he could focus on was his brain screaming _so what? So what so what so what?_ “How the fuck did

you get out?” he growled instead. Suspicious.

Her face went dark. “They wanted a messenger, and they didn’t have time for a _slave_ .” The word burned like acid in the air between them. It reminded him right quick that _oh yeah_ , she hated Vulpes as much as he did, though her reasons remained undisclosed. Not that it mattered what they were, not to him. “They were on a mission. Hell if I know what.”

That just made him missing them _worse._ “Fine,” he gritted out. This wasn’t her fault. It was bit that the fucker had been so fucking _close._

“Oh, don’t worry,” Sloan assured. “We’ll run across him again.” There was no doubt in her voice, only grim certainty.

He didn’t care how or why she knew. It didn’t matter, in the end. “Good.”

Flinty eyes gazed back at him. Like she knew his secret, and found him wanting. He knew better by now than to expect anything, but he was waiting for her to demand answers, to call him out. Instead she just nodded.

When they pushed back out into the sun, he felt cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters... are gonna be a doozy. They'll probably come out in short succession. Shootouts, secrets, murder, not quite murder, decisions, confrontations, new beginnings, new secrets... it'll be a regular soap. And you'll find out what Sloan did in those two months.


	10. Caught in the Middle

 

_ I can't think of getting old _

_ It only makes me want to die _

_ And I can't think of who I was _

_ 'Cause it just makes me want to cry, cry, cry _

_ Can't look back, can't look too far ahead _

_ I got the point, I got the message _

_ I'm just a little bit caught in the middle _

Paramore

Something was clearly going on. The King hadn’t had any idea why the Kings were suddenly being targeted without an attempt at subtlety, but Kieran had said the envoy to the Kings had been assaulted. Which meant something was going on in the middle, something that was falling through the cracks.

Someone wanted the Kings and NCR at odds, to push to tension until something gave. The question was why. It wasn’t falling in anyone’s favor. It was only making a bad situation worse.

“Care to share?” Sloan said, glancing over as they headed back to the King’s.

Boone shrugged. “Just thinking it doesn’t make sense. Whoever is orchestrating this isn’t taking care to give either side an advantage. They’re just catalyzing the escalation. Seems weird.”

Sloan hummed contemplatively. “Hmm. Maybe that’s just it, though?” she suggested, but sounded unsure. “Tired of waiting? Still, if you’re going to cause trouble, why not cause helpful trouble?” Boone raised an eyebrow, casting a sideways look. “Oh, don’t give me that,” she shot back, having caught the look. “It makes sense.”

He put his hands up in defense. “I didn’t say a word.” 

She scowled at him, but the corners of her eyes crinkled with mirth. “I’m going to shave  your eyebrows off, dick.”

“I’d just draw them on, just to spite you,” he deadpanned, earning an amused snort.

“Oh, that’d be a look. You’re just making me want to do it more now,” she teased.

A smile twitched at one corner of his mouth as they stepped into the sunny lobby of the King’s. As soon as they did, as if he were waiting for them, the man that usually lurked outside the King’s auditorium stepped into their path.

“Hey,” he said, the greeting more of a bark than a hello. Boone tensed at the show of aggression, ready for a fight. “News travels fast,” he continued, “and I’ve heard you’ve been listening to NCR lies.”

Sloan crossed her arms, something cautious in her eyes. “NCR lies say they were actually trying to broker a peace when their envoy walked into a quinceanera and got beat like a piñata.”  

The man scoffed. “Bullshit. More like they sent a spy who got made. But it’s taken care of, and NCR ain’t never gonna be a friend of the Kings’. Don’t bother the King with it. He’s got enough on his plate without having to rehash closed matters, ‘specially with things gettin’ worse. Let him be.” To Boone’s surprise, the man seemed sincere in at least his concern. Maybe even a little sad. He was clearly loyal to the King.

Sloan shrugged. “You’re probably right. I’ll tell him what I found on his boys, but I won’t reopen closed matters, like you said.” But she shifted her feet, and from a step behind her, Boone could see the hand tucked from the man’s view flex, then clench into a fist. She didn’t believe a lick of what he was saying, Boone realized, but was leading him into a false sense of security. 

The man visibly relaxed, a sure sign he had been worked up. “Exactly. Glad to see we’re of one mind on this. ‘Scuse me, I got business.” He brushed past them and out the door without another word, and the pair watched him go.

“So he’s a shitty liar,” Sloan remarked as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. She looked almost baffled that the man had made a frankly obtuse break for it.

“Yup,” Boone agreed. “So I assume we’re actually telling the King?”

“Mhmm,” Sloan agreed. “Not that he’s gonna like it.” They stood for a moment, taking a second to settle. “The King’s day is about to get a lot worse, and it’s not even noon,” she said, looking around the room and sounding regretful. 

“Probably, yeah,” he agreed.

Sloan glanced at him. “I appreciate your honesty, but you’re not making feel like less of an asshole.”

Boone made an  _ I-don’t-know-what-you-expected _ sort of gesture. “I mean, it is. It isn’t good news.”

Sloan sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling like she needed divine assistance to deal with his bullshit. “That’s the one thing I won’t miss about being a courier. There’s a joke to be made here about shooting the messenger, but I’m not going to make it.”  
“Probably for the best.” It took a moment for her words to register fully. “You’re a courier?” he asked.

“Were.” Sloan cocked her head. “Is that surprising?”

Boone shrugged. “Not at all, actually.” She was a runner, never stopping. Thinking about it, he couldn’t see her doing anything else. “What made you stop?”

She returned the shrug. “Got shot in the head, couldn’t remember any contacts or the job I was on, and my employer here wound up dead. It happens, unfortunately.”

“It absolutely does not,” he replied incredulously.

She shrugged again. “I mean. It did. Oh! You know, thinking about it, that guy Benny has whatever my package was. Guess I’ll get to see what all that was about,” she mused, looking nonplussed. Completely glossing over  _ apparently _ routinely defying death.

“Let me clarify,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It does not happen to  _ anybody _ else.”

“I’m one of a kind,” she said with a cheeky grin. “Though honestly, stranger things have happened.”

“Like  _ what? _ ” he asked, not understanding how the hell ‘stranger things’ than surviving a bullet to the brain could possibly happen to one person.

“Well, I mean, I’ve been thrown off a waterfall as an initiation into a cult. This kind of stuff happens,” she explained nonchalantly. “Just not all in the same place. When you move a lot, you see a lot. A lot happens. You get blitzed on hallucinogenic tea from a shaman and fight ghost bears while getting caught in religious turf wars. The world is a crazy place, Boone.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Now I know you’re just messing with me.” 

She laid a hand over her heart. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

He looked over at her for a long moment. “You’ve got to be shitting me. What kind of cult throws you off a waterfall?” 

“Yao Guai riders. They consider them to be nature gods observing mankin to see when we deserve new life,” she said with complete sincerity. “I’ve got the scars to prove it. It ain’t easy. Anyway, the King. Treason. All that. C’mon.” Dazedly, he followed.

The King was pouring over papers just as he had been the day before, looking frustrated. A step ahead of Boone, Sloan sighed heavily.

“Hey,” she greeted, announcing her presence as she strode into the room. Boone cringed at the lack of respect, but the King didn’t seem to mind, his expression only weary when he glanced up.

“You find out somethin’ about them soldier boys yet?” he asked, voice tense and laced with exhaustion. Sloan slipped into the seat next to him, and Boone slouched into the chair to her left.

She glanced pointedly at the papers. “You find anything new going over the same old stuff all night? Or are dark circles trending?” she questioned, both parts chastising and sympathetic. 

The King cracked a weak smile. “No on both accounts, but you can’t blame me for tryin’. People are goin’ hungry.”

She shrugged. “Not blaming. But losing sleep and running yourself ragged ain’t gonna help anybody. But luckily, I found some answers that might.” She leaned back in her chair until it was balanced precariously on its back two legs, the picture of irreverence. “NCR is handing out supplies down by…” she looked to Boone for assistance.

“The old train station,” he supplied.

“Right, that,” she agreed, pointing a finger at him like a host of one of the Strip shows.

The King frowned. “Supplies? Like food and stuff? That ain’t nothing to get ruffled over. Hell, that’s the exact opposite of a problem.” He paused. Squinted at them. “But I’m guessing there’s something else.”

“Unfortunately,” Sloan admitted.

The man dragged a heavy hand down his face like he could pull away the stress dragging him down. “There’s always something else.” He sighed and straightened his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. “Alright, what is it?”

“They refuse to serve non-NCR. Aka, your people.”

The smile the King wore held no mirth, only a sense of  _ go-fucking-figure. _ “Ah, that’d explain the goons.”

Sloan shook her head. “Not quite. They said someone was sent to negotiate with you.”

Before she could get farther, the King was pushing to his feet. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, putting a hand out to stop her. To Boone’s mild surprise, she waited as he paced for a few high-strung moments before stopping to look at the pair. “They said what?” he asked, even though he had heard, needing to reaffirm the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Major Kieran said they never made it, turned back after they nearly got first row seats to Jesus’s meet n’ greet,” she explained. 

“Which we know wasn’t the Kings, or at least a real representative of you,” Boone added at the incredulous look on the King’s face.

As soon as the words were out, the King was shaking his head. “No representative of mine. That ain’t something I support, no sir. Seems we have a big misunderstanding.” Despite the simple explanation, the man looked shaken.

Sloan cringed at the words. “Uh, yeah, about that-”

She was abruptly and loudly cut off by the auditorium door slamming open to spit out a panicked Kings member.

“What the hell-” the King began, nearly shouting at the interruption.

“King, we’ve got problems,” the newcomer gasped, hands on his knees and trying to get his breath back. His chest rose and fell in heaves, the man clearly having peeled in at a dead sprint.

“Lay it on me,” the King ordered, that anxious energy channeled to laser focus. “What’s going on?”

The man straightened at the sharp authority directed his way. “There’s- there’s a shootout goin’ on at the train station. It’s- sir, it’s Pacer and some strangers, maybe NCR.    
Can’t tell, everybody’s shooting at anything that moves.” Sloan and Boone traded a loaded look. Between the location and the involvement of Pacer, there was only one thing going on. The tension had reached a breaking point.

“What is that fool  _ doing? _ ” The King snarled, calm demeanor consumed by rage. The panting gangster shrank back a step, trying to seem as small as possible. The King’s gaze flicked back to him at the movement, pinning him in place with a look and halting his retreat. “I need you to head out there and try to defuse the situation,” he ordered. “Tell them I’m willing to cooperate and that someone has been putting words in the King’s mouth.”

The man gulped in a deep breath and took off back out the door.

Sloan got to her feet, and Boone followed suit and the unspoken order. “We think it was Pacer who coordinated the attack on the NCR envoy,” she said bluntly, the time for pleasantries apparently past. 

The King deflated like a balloon. “I wish I was surprised. He doesn’t take stress well. Never has, even way back when we were kids.” So they were childhood friends, then. It went a ways for explaining why Pacer was so loyal. “I expect he just couldn’t take the tension anymore.”

“We’ll see what we can do, third party and all that,” Sloan said, something soft coloring her expression. “We’ll try and bring him back.”

The King glanced up, pain and surprise written there. “Yeah?”

Sloan shrugged. “He’s yours, after all. And I’d rather not go on the record for the one who whacked your childhood friend.” She rubbed at the back of her neck, something left unsaid. “And besides,” she continued, speaking to the floor, voice misleadingly blase, “I’ve been around the block a couple times. I’ve seen a hundred and one ways to help people, to try and make life make sense, and all the ways it goes wrong. What you’re doing here, well… You’re doing a bang-up job of it, if I’m any kind of judge. So yeah, you have my support, for what it’s worth.”

Throughout the impromptu speech, her face has steadily heated until it was a bright red. At the sound of silence following it, she rushed to say, “Yeah, anyways. Shootout. I should go.”

The King just cracked a smile. “That’s somethin’. Really. And if this is what your support looks like, I’ll take it.” 

The bright scarlet of her face turned an impossible maroon, and she turned away. “Shootout. Not good. I’ll go.” The King just chuckled quietly at their backs as they made their exit.

 

Boone had enough experience in shootouts to know this particular one wasn’t going well, even before they turned the corner.

“Hold up,” he said, throwing an arm out in front of Sloan, though careful not to touch. He’d learned his lesson well enough. 

Sloan’s head tilted at a questioning angle. “What?”

He pointed vaguely upwards. “Listen.”

She looked briefly annoyed, but it quickly slipped. She knew that  _ he  _ knew she wasn’t a moron. “Gunshots. Obviously.”

Boone shook his head. “You can hear them, but you aren’t  _ listening. _ Listen,” he ordered.

Sloan frowned, but didn’t snap at him. “Um. Lots of gunshots,” she tried again.

“Exactly,” he agreed with a nod. “It means no one is winning. No one is hiding either- they aren’t shooting at shadows. Which means if you walk in there with a weapon, you’ll lose your head before you can ask where the bar is,” he explained.

Sloan hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. You want to take point on this one, then? I’ve still got a headache from getting shot in the face last time.”

Boone blinked, not having expected to be handed the reins so easily. “Sure,” he acquiesced, recovering and quickly slipping back into that old role of a soldier. It was putting on an old pair of boots- cold, but just as easy as the day he resigned. “First things first. Lose the hat,” he said, pointing at the offending article. “Covering your face makes you look, well, shady,” he said with a wry grin, pulling off his beret and sunglasses.

Sloan shrugged and pulled it off, depositing it in her duffel and holding her hand out for his items as well. In the sunlight, her face was thrown into sharp relief. There on her forehead, the dark bullet hole stood out, absorbing the light like a chasm instead of reflecting it. The thin surgery slices radiating from it were fading fast, likely due to stimpacks, but the dark scab on the epicenter remained. The bruises she had when they met still littered her jaw and ringed one eye, the sickly green-yellow staining down her cheekbone. He could now see the shiny white line of a scar bisecting her eyebrow and up onto her forehead in a strangely perfect curve. Between the bullet hole and the scar, it almost looked like a pair of devil’s horns, with one broken off.

“You about done?” Sloan asked, interrupting his blatant inspection. Her tone was mild, but without the ever-present hat, he was able to notice how her eyes were showing a little more white than normal, like a scared brahmin. When he looked a little closer, he could see that yes, she was a little rattled.

He put one hand up defensively, the other handing over his effects. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“Whatever. We ditching guns?” she asked, plowing on without a second to linger. 

Fine by him. “Yes, but keep a knife on hand. Worst comes to worst, we’ve got something.”

They shoved it all in the duffel, which in turn was hidden under bites of decaying wood and bricks next to the nearby wall.

Dusting off his hands, Boone said, “Follow my lead. Let me at least start the talking, get us in in one piece.”

Sloan nodded. “After you,” she said, gesturing ahead of them in invitation.

They turned the corner and into sight with their hands raised. To their right, Boone could see the corpse of a Kings member. The one the King had sent to defuse the situation. Probably hadn’t known better, and had arrived in the sprint he’d left in. 

_ Fuck. _ He’d been hoping against reason there hadn’t been any casualties yet. Casualties made negotiations a lot more… touchy. Personal.

Up ahead, they could see a wooden outpost, painted to blend in with the background. Definitely NCR, then. As they approached, he could see about every other second a head pop up, fire off a round, then duck back down. Already, one of them had their eye on the pair, and pointed in their direction at their approach.

Boone stepped into the clearing, hands still high. “We’re here to negotiate on behalf of the King,” Boone called loudly. Almost immediately, the gunshots from both sides ceased.

“Draw a weapon, and we’ll fire!” a voice called from the outpost balcony.

“We brought knives to a gunfight!” Boone yelled back. “Relax!” 

“And you all-” Sloan’s voice came as she pointed at the Kings’ half of the battlefield. “Don’t fucking shoot, if you know what’s good for you!” 

“Since when did the King employ outsiders!” one of the Kings accused.

“Since his people got into shootouts with NCR, moron!” she barked in response.

Boone smirked a little to himself. “You gonna let us negotiate, or am I gonna have to take my case to God, because I’m talking to the sky, pal.” There were snickers and and snorts from both sides at that.

“Keep your hands up, and walk slowly around back!” the first voice said. Boone gave a short salute of affirmance.

Boone rolled his eyes. “Knife. Gunfight,” he muttered, drawing a loud laugh from Sloan. He glanced over to see her grinning at him, blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “What?”

She snorted. “Nothin’. You’re just funny.” 

Together, they rounded the outpost, Sloan a step behind, silently still deferring to his lead. There, Boone was less than surprised to see Pacer, who looked supremely uncomfortable and like he  _ really _ wanted to be somewhere else. But to his right was an NCR soldier, who while he didn’t look he was keeping him, wasn’t likely to let him make a break for it.

Elizabeth Kieran came down the steps to meet them, looking unhappy to see them. “What he the King want? Better question, why are you here, when he already have our contact with the Kings right here?” she asked in a manner reminiscent of an interrogation, pointing at none other than Pacer, who gulped.

Sloan stepped up to Boone’s side. “He wants to help with the relief effort. Always did.”

Kieran snorted. “Oh, like he helped the envoy we sent? No thanks. He’s helped enough.” Oh yeah, she did  _ not _ want to negotiate. Boone could only hope that outing Pacer would be enough.

“Oh, but here’s the kicker,” Sloan went on, not at all deterred. “He didn’t even know it was sent.  _ Someone _ -” she looked to Pacer. “-has been talking for him. Telling the Kings things like to take out snooping NCR. Like envoys. And who, pray tell, do you think has that kind of authority?” She smiled sweetly at Pacer, but it was the kind of smile that reminded a person why people had canines. In short, predatory.

“None other than our man of the hour, our distinguished diplomat,  _ Pacer. _ Pacer, who got tired of waiting games. Pacer, whose boss  _ really _ wants a word with him.” The man in question paled, looking very, very afraid. “Oh yes,” Sloan drawled, voice kicking down an octave. “He knows all about how you betrayed his trust.” Her eyes went flinty at that. If looks could kill, Boone mused absently. “And let me just say,” she said, voice low and dangerous, almost gravelly. “He was less than impressed.”

Pacer looked like his soul has been sucked from his body, half a second from either bolting or fainting. “I- fuck,” he whimpered, voice high and think in comparison to Sloan’s.

Kieran’s eyes popped wide at her words and spun to face him. “You  _ what?” _ she demanded, rage now directed righteously at Pacer.

“Doesn’t matter, not now,” Boone interjected before Kieran could start dabbling in impromptu facial reconstruction. Or rather, destruction. “The King will take of him. What matters is now, as in calling off this shootout and sending another envoy that we will make sure  _ does  _ reach the King. As in stopping the violence. There’s been enough here today.” 

The major looked at them for a long second. Turning back to Pacer, she growled, “You better run, bastard. You’re lucky I’ve got my priorities straight.” The man needed no further prompting, and beat a hasty retreat like his ass was on fire. “As for the envoy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, shoot me a comment or a kudos! It helps keep me motivated!  
> 


	11. Long Road to Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all loved creepy Vulpes so much, so brace yourselves. If you don't care for it, it's in bars.  
> I hope you like this long chapter, I sacrificed my soul for it.

_A heavy cross you bear_

_A stubborn heart remains unchanged_

_No home, no life, no love_

_No stranger singing in your name_

_Dear God I've sealed my fate_

_Long road to ruin, there in your eyes_

_Under the cold streetlights_

_No dead-end in sight_

_Come now, I'm leaving here tonight_

_Come now, let's leave it all behind_

_Running through hell_

_Heaven can wait_

Foo Fighters

 

Sloan watched the proceedings with something not quite pride. Relief, maybe? It felt… good. She had turned the other eye for so long, swallowed down the desire to do something in favor of safety, of anonymity. Hell, the visceral _need._

Before… she didn’t want to say ‘everything’, though the Legion had certainly changed her. But she was still, at her core, the daughter her parents had raised, no matter what they thought of her now. Would have thought.

Their caravan had always taken in runaways, slaves and regular folk alike. Had always helped where they reasonably could. Sloan liked to think she had retained at least a sliver of that kindness, at least in her values. And today, just maybe, her parents would have been proud. They would have like her to have stayed kind. God knew- he better- how hard it was to be kind when she had seen the worst of the world, that people had to offer. But she was trying, now. Would try to be kind again.

The King shot Sloan a grateful smile over Major Kieran’s shoulder as they exchanged greetings. They weren’t all bad, she had to remember.

She cut a glance at Boone. He had been harsh and almost unkind at their first meeting, as paranoid and cynical as she was. Yet he was funny. Still believed in doing good, in trying to be good despite the world willing him to be cold.

She didn’t realize she had been staring until Boone looked back at her. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled behind his sunglasses. The corners of her mouth twisted upwards in the ghost of a smile. It wasn’t the grins and smirks they had shared. It was something more sincere, a thing they could manage in light of the tarnish on their souls, not in in spite of. A bit depressing that it was the best they could manage, but… Sloan could feel something good in the dark. As if he knew on some level what she was thinking, he gave her a single nod.

She turned to survey the room. There wasn’t anything left to be done at the moment, not by them; the envoy had safely arrived, and Pacer was under more than one watchful eyes, and looked pretty nauseous about it.

So really, there was only thing left _to_ do.

Since arriving in New Vegas, she had changed. Ambitious as it was to say, it was true. She could only hope it could continue when they left. But between the two of them, she had a pretty good feeling. They would be alright.

New Vegas wouldn’t be the end of her road like she had thought. In a moment of rare optimism, she thought it might be the start of something.

But first, she had to kill Benny. And to do that, she would, unfortunately, have to seduce him.

 

She had somehow forgotten how much she loved looking through beautiful clothes, relics sturdy enough to survive the brunt of time. Wearing them these days was a little different, since she hated showing skin. But the wonder she had developed traveling across the Midwest- now just called the East- in her caravan days was still there, still alive.

Sloan studied her reflection in the cramped bathroom that adjoined their room at the Atomic Wrangler.

The vendor had been adamant on red. Said it made her look powerful. And if she didn’t think too hard about it, she felt like it.

Red silk hugged her chest before flaring out in an A-line skirt that made her pale legs look a mile long. Her hair glowed gold in the low light, which occasionally flickered, the dark scab on her forehead covered by hair carefully pinned in place. For a moment she could swear she smelled smoke, the silk brushing down her thighs in remembered bloody rivulets, the stuttering lightbulb like the flames.

She felt powerful in the echo of the memory, the same as she had in that scorchhouse nine years ago, legionnaires sprawled in inelegant death at her feet, Freedom in hand for the first time, looted from one of the corpses.

She felt powerful, remembering how she’d watched the building go up in ironic flames from afar. How the very night had bent to the light of her flames, of her justice.

But in the end they were too bright, would get her caught if she didn’t run.

She would run, tonight. Run from the scene of a murder again. The thought threatened to bring it all crashing down. She had survived this road before, but only in the barest sense of the word. Had run to freedom and headlong into a vengeful type of self-hatred.

Yet in doing so she had made something of of temple of her body, devoted only to herself and for no one else’s visual consumption. Now she would walk into that lion’s den again, degrading herself to something a man wanted to see, wanted to touch. Wanted to make his own.

But today- tonight she wouldn’t be helpless. Wouldn’t be complicit. She was not giving in this time, wasn’t taking it lying on her back. She was seeking this out, a means to an end. It was not a plea for mercy, it was a weapon.

The thought gave her the strength to shrug on the accompanying leather jacket, effectively hiding the brand on her forearm, and step into the main room.

Boone looked up from the book he had been reading while she was out shopping, reclined on the bed (the sneaky bastard). “Oh.” That was all. She had never told him how she would go about killing Benny.

Sloan rolled her eyes, pulling her hair from the collar of the jacket and crashed back onto the ratty couch. “So-” she yelped, almost shooting through the thin cushion and straight to the hardwood. “I just saw Jesus. Anyway, I’m going to get him alone through what I hope are obvious methods. If I’m not back in, let’s say twenty minutes, do your thing. Which, by the way, is preferably saving my ass. But I won’t blame you if you make a break for it.” Though her tone was teasing, she made sure to tell him with her eyes that she wouldn’t blame him if he did run.

She turned to focus to wedging the tall red heels onto her feet, continuing to talk before he could make a big ordeal of her words. “I say twenty minutes because I figure disrespecting the dead through expected performance time would be asking for someone to get suspicious.”

“Right.” Boone marked his page and closed the book. “I hope you have a plan B if you can’t get to your weapon?” She would be tucking a straight razor in her underwear- which she could admit was mildly gross- but they had agreed nothing else would get past a pat down.

Sloan rolled her shoulders against the slight twitch of tension. “I’ve killed with less.” Or thought she had. But it would have to be enough.

 

They got into the Strip without a hitch with the fake passes the Kings had put together for them.

Sloan looked around in wonder at the grandeur. It was so _bright._ It was one thing to see the Strip lit up from miles away. But there was something abrupt about walking from the Freeside ruins to this. Perhaps it was the din; Freeside was oddly quiet, a murmur of noise twisting through the streets like wind, and the Mojave itself was silent, apart from noise and perhaps distant gunfire. Here, noise raged in the form of drunken cries, catcalls, singing, and general talking. Layered above it all, music blasted from speakers attached to the top of the orange streetlights.

It almost looked as if it hadn’t changed since the War. Neon lights glowing bright in unnatural colors, almost everyone in the crowds milling the space was dressed in clothes fitting the period, and the music drifting down were all working together to create the feeling of surreality.

Boone pointed past what looked like a strip club to another building, the steps leading to it lined in vibrant yellow lights. “That’s the Tops over there.” He sounded sad.

“Is that where you met?” she asked, careful not to say her name. She kept her eyes trained forward, giving any emotions that might flash across his face their privacy.

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate.

Sloan glanced upwards, as if to remind herself among the lights and anachronisms that the world was the same as it was on the other side of the gates. “It’s strange, that a place like this can exist. I haven’t seen anything quite like it, and that’s saying something.” Somehow it preserved the spirit of the place, of the time. Though Sloan supposed gambling never really changed, the art of taking risks and losing.

“Really?” Boone said. “I suppose it’s probably due to Mr. House. He owns the Strip and all the Securitrons, and cut a deal with NCR after the battle over Hoover Dam to keep fifteen percent of the power it generated to run this place. He lives in the Lucky 38, over there,” he said and pointed to the building on their left. The building towered over the others, and she recognized it as the one she had seen in the distance since Goodsprings. She had the feeling that even if the other structures were leveled, as long as the Lucky 38 stood, New Vegas would exist.

“Swanky,” she remarked.

“He keeps it locked down, though. No one goes in there,” Boone added.

Sloan eyes the Securitrons patrolling the Strip. “Yeah, I can see why no one would push the matter.” Boone snorted in amusement.

“Alright,” she announced. “Showtime.” Sloan climbed the steps to wait in line, and eventually entered the Tops alone.

The inside of the Tops was just as bright as the outside. Immediately upon entering, the man behind the desk greeted her, just as Boone had told her to expect. He was dressed in a surprisingly crisp light gray pinstripe suit, and his hair was neatly combed and slicked back. “Hey hey, baby doll, welcome to the Tops Hotel and Casino!” he welcomed brightly.

Sloan held back a cringe at the familiar term, instead plastering on a bright smile. “Howdy,” she greeted in return. Behind her, she heard the sound of the door behind her and saw Boone enter out of the corner of her eye. They had agreed that in order for her to get her hooks in Benny, she had to seem single and alone. Not to mention that if Boone needed to save her foolish ass, it wouldn’t raise questions. Call her naive, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“I’m going to have to ask you to hand over any weapons you might be carrying,” the greeter continued cheerily.

Sloan smiled in upplayed amusement and gave an amiable laugh. “Do I look like I have anywhere to put it? But you’re free to pat me down anytime, babe,” she purred. The words tasted like battery acid on her tongue, vile and untrue, but she nevertheless tilted her head in a way she knew lengthened her neck and brought attention to her blonde hair.

The man just smiled and gestured to a guard by the door.

Sloan held still, her spine rigid and barely daring to breathe as footsteps approached. Her heart rate kicked up a gear, but she kept the smile fixed to her face. She could do this. This would not kill her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice said near her ear as heavy hands landed on her shoulders. They thankfully ran warm, and remained professional as they skimmed her body in a practiced frisk. “She’s clean,” the guard announced, and returned to his post to await the next patron.

“Smooth and easy, just the way I like it,” the greeter said appreciatively. “Oh, and a friendly word of advice: if you happen to ‘stumble across’ any weapons during your stay here, well… just don’t wear them openly, you dig?” Sloan was enough of a experienced liar to not even blink, just saluted lazily. “Enjoy the Tops, then. Have a good time, baby.”

Sloan gave him one last smile and rounded the desk to the heart of the casino.

If she thought the Strip was loud, this was a new level. Crowded. Music played overhead like it had outside, some kind of upbeat jazzy tune, but in here it was but the base line to the clamor of people packed close together. Someone to her left whooped with joy as a group to her right groaned at a loss. A balcony ringed the casino area to form a second level, the clinks of silverware and china floating down, elegantly dressed people dining and leaning against the rail, drinks in hand. It was chaos on the senses, and on top of the sound and flurry of colors, the air smelled strongly of sweat and spilled beer. She was starting to think the people drinking above open air had the right idea. Besides, a drink seemed as good a place to start as any.

She headed up the wide staircase to buy a margarita (at an exorbitant price) and joined in in leaning over the balcony. It was a discreet enough way to case the casino and settle into the role she would play tonight.

There were a hell of a lot of guards, she quickly noticed. Though not obtuse, anyone looking for it could pick them out. Most lingered at the fringes in uniform, but the ones she scanned for were undercover partygoers, never getting around to gambling or drinking. Hopefully it meant Benny would definitely come.

She was distantly aware of the interested looks she was garnering, mostly men but more than a few women. Attracted, but unable to tell if she was the wild night they inevitably looked for in a place like this. Which meant it was time to start playing a careful game. Time to make them believe what she wanted them to. That she was something special enough that by the time she made her move on Benny, she could bank on more than looks to get him to accept. He was likely propositioned constantly based on his status as a Chairman alone. A pretty face at a casino wouldn’t get him alone.

Sloan began at the poker table, saying little and betting high, like she was someone who had money to throw around. And so the game began.

When she won a round, pulling her earnings to her corner of the table, the cue was picked up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” a man asked, interest successfully piqued. Instead of an answer, she only offered him an enigmatic smile. _You’re not enough,_ it said.

It was a challenge men loved, to try and succeed where others had failed. It made her _somebody,_ made her something more than another game or another pretty face in the casino. Something to mention to someone else between rounds or as a distraction during a game.

The challenge successfully issued, it didn’t take long for another member of the game to try their luck- and fail. Sloan moved on from the poker table, giving them room to talk behind her back, even if it was just a passing comment.

There was a flash of a familiar memory in her periphery, and she saw it. Him. And fuck, was it uglier than she remembered. Leaning against the balcony in a corner, surrounded by fellow high rollers- some of whom were probably guards- was one Benny in one _ugly_ checkered suit jacket.

Despite having atrocious taste in clothes, he was otherwise… decent looking, she supposed. Tall and lean with broad shoulders and warm tan skin, smooth dark brown hair slicked back soft under the lights. Strong jaw, clean shaven. She could see the appeal, if he hadn’t shot her in the face.

She watched his eyes take her in for a moment, but move on. Good. He didn’t recognize her. An easy enough mistake to make, since her scarf had covered her head and hair when they’d met. And it would be his downfall.

 

Hours passed. Sloan nursed only a handful of drinks to maintain the illusion she was actively drinking, but otherwise genuinely enjoyed herself. Sometimes she would feel a pair of eyes on her and turn to see Boone, checking in.

It was nearing eleven thirty when she realized she hadn’t seen Boone in a while. Glancing around the main for as subtlety as she could, she couldn’t find him. Frowning, she polished off her drink as an excuse to head upstairs.

He was easy enough to find, then, sitting alone at a table and staring at the empty chair across from him.

Sloan sighed. She had lost no small amount of caps tonight, but she was willing to bet that the table he sat at was where his wife had first ensnared his interest.

She pulled a chair up to the table, leaving the present chair respectfully empty. “Funny, isn’t it?” she mused, a lonely patron looking for talk, idly twirling the stem of her drained margarita glass and gazing down at the game tables.

“I don’t see how,” he replied, words lacking bite.

Sloan shrugged. “They’re losing, but look at them. Smiling, laughing. And they’ll come back for more.”

His voice was quiet when he spoke again, though not lacking in bitterness. “They haven’t lost enough, then.”

She propped her head on one fist. “I dunno. I think they come knowing they’ll lose, to some degree. That it’s out of their control. A lot of things are. But you’re right,” she conceded. “Some people love it. They’re passionate. They bet it all, and they lose it all. Maybe they’re cheated out of it, in a sense, but at the end of the days what’s gone is gone.”

She shrugged again. “Call it insensitive, but those people? They get a big win and chase the rush. And they lose a lot, but they eventually make it through. They’ll think of that win, the night things went right fondly. I think it’s better than to lose and lose and _lose_ and never win at all. Better to love something than live careful. But what do I know? I’ve only ever lost.”

He looked down at the bottom of his bottle. “But damn, it hurts.” It was a more honest confession than she was expecting. “You know,” he continued, as if he hadn’t given such a close-held piece of himself, “statistically, you have to win sometime.”

Sloan blinked, surprised by the assurance. “Bound to lose sometimes too, by that theory.” If the moment wasn’t about him, if the night wasn’t what it was, if she wasn’t emotionally unavailable, she might have said that she could only ever lose because some force out there wanted her to suffer. She didn't just fail to win, she  _lost_ _,_ rolling snake eyes again and again.

Boone nodded. “Good thing I don’t buy in anymore.” His tone was dark, laced with double meaning, but he didn’t explain.

“Hmm,” Sloan hummed, rising. “Well, you have to win sometimes, if the house wants you to keep playing,” she reasoned. “It’ll come. I think… I think I’ve my statistical win-” the only one she was ever going to get- “so hold out. If a win comes around for someone like me, then things can work out,” she said quietly, touching her bare fingertips to his forearm in an act that surprised them both. Boone was her statistical win. A sign that things might change. A win enough that she could move on, like a woman freed from a casino.

Boone looked up, stunned even through his sunglasses. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” she replied, shrugging off his attempt to make it a moment. “I’m bored. Gonna buy a drink. I think it’s time to test my luck again.” _It’s time._

“Good luck,” he called after her.

When she returned to the first floor, she made her way to the blackjack tables. A nearby corner housed Benny and his friends/bodyguards, chatting between themselves. Sloan felt his eyes on her as she watched the existing game finish up. When she was dealt into the next game, he joined, placing himself to her left.

It didn’t take him long to start talking. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “I hear you’re the talk of the night,” he began, placing rolls of chips in paper on the table.

Sloan glanced up through her eyelashes, as if surprised. “Really? All good things, I hope?”

He grinned, pleased at his reception. His teeth were distractingly white. “Mostly complaints that they can’t get a name.”

“Oh, you know how they can get. I think we both know there’s more to class than a ticket in,” she said, as if confiding, counting him as her equal. As if she wasn’t a fake ticket in nice wrappings herself.

The comment earned a chuckle. “Oh, do I know, sweetheart. Try being a Chairman,” he said in exasperation, clearly posturing with the name drop.

Nevertheless, she gave him a lasting look this time. “No kidding? Wish I had someone to tell, I’m here from California,” she lied effortlessly. “Came here looking for the city of dreams. I mostly just finding out how lonely it is out here. But what can you do, you know?” She sighed, a petite _oh poor me_ kind of thing.

“Long way,” he observed. “What’s it like?”

“Greener,” she replied with a laugh.

A few more rounds passed with similar banter until they were both laughing and smiling. Blackjack was not the only game coming to a close.

“Well damn,” Sloan sighed good-naturedly, standing up and tossing down her cards after losing another round. “Thought I’d get lucky tonight.”

“You still might,” Benny said with a wide grin.

“Yeah?” she said, mirroring the grin.

“Oh sure, I’ll show you the Tops. Can’t let your night end on a low note, can we?” He angled his body so he could rest an arm on the table around her and leaned in. “What d’ya say? Up for it?”

She raised an eyebrow at the double entendre. “You think you can show me the Tops? I’m going to need some convincing.”

His warm brown eyes twinkled, knowing he had won more than blackjack. “Oh, I’ve got some convincing evidence up in my suite.”

Sloan laughed indulgently. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

“Oh, I’ll show you everything.” He slid off his stool, crooking his arm in invitation.

Steeling her nerves, she smiled sweetly and laced her arm through his. She rose on her toes to brush her lips against the shell of his ear. “The name’s Sloan,” she whispered, smiling against his skin when he shuddered. If only he knew. Then he’d shudder for an entirely different reason.

Benny led them through the lobby. Lingering by a slot machine, Sloan spotted Boone. They didn’t dare nod, but they held gazes for just a moment. Then she was being led to the bank of elevators.

A keycard inserted in the panel next to one of the doors had an elevator opening immediately for them, the inside empty. She and Benny, along with two of his guards, stepped inside.

“They’re going to stand outside the elevator, don’t worry,” Benny assured when she raised her brow. “I’m not one for private audiences, personally.”

The elevator dinged before she had to start a conversation about voyeurism, and sure enough, the guards took their place beside it.

The room Benny led her towards was located far enough down the hall that she wouldn’t have to worry too much about any incriminating sounds making their way to the guards. The darved double suite doors unlocked with another swipe of the keycard, revealing an extensive room complete with a fireplace and its own _bar._ Fuck, the rich had it good.

“Nice digs,” she commented, passing through ahead of him.

“The bed’s real nice,” Benny replied cheekily, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Mmm,” Sloan hummed, reaching out to pull him close by his tije. “How bout you wait for me there, big boy?” she drawled, pushing him a little in the direction of the secondary door.

“I hope you’re built sturdy, babe,” he tossed over his shoulder, sliding off that fucking _jacket_ and letting it fall behind him.

She just followed him in. He had backed up the edge of the bed, waiting. The Tops, ha. Sloan shoved him backwards onto the mattress and straddled his stomach. Plastering a glazed, heavy-lidded expression on her face, she reached under the skirt of her dress.

And pulled out the straight razor, flicking it open. “Surprised I’m packing, babe?” she crooned as he startled. “Just to be clear,” she went on, pressing the blade to his neck and stilling his movements, “this isn’t knifeplay.”

“What in the goddamn…?” he breathed, eyes round and scared.

She clicked her teeth. “Probably not a good time to be making enemies, bud,” she admonished. “But let me give you a hint, since you seem lost,” she continued in a low growl. One hand pushed away the pinned swoop of hair, revealing the ugly bullet wound. “Now think _real hard_ and try again.”

“The courier from Goodsprings,” he whispered, looking like he’d seen a ghost. It probably seemed like it, she supposed. But it was more than that, she realized as she looked closer. There was a kind of acceptance in those eyes that came when someone knew they were guilty, that they deserved the punishment they would receive. It was more than she expected to see.

“You gotta know, it wasn’t personal,” he pleaded, pupils blown wide and only a thin ring of brown around them.

Sloan let something approaching human seep into her own eyes. “I know. But you started this. I have to finish it.”

“That fucking chip? It’s a damn fucking curse,” he barked. “It doesn’t _belong_ here.”

Sloan shook her head. “I’m not here for the chip. I don’t even remember what it is anymore. I’m here for you.” The blade traced the skin of his trachea and over the buttons of his shirt one by one until it rested over his stomach. She almost didn’t want to. He had only shot her in the head. It was by far one of the lesser evils done unto her.

“Sorry,” she offered, but it sounded lacking even to her own ears. Before she could wimp out of it, she shoved the blade in. A small breath was punched out of him, and the sound that left him after was somewhere between a groan and a high keen.

Benny’s eyes stayed fixed on a distant point on the ceiling as she climbed off him to rummage through his jacket. The only things of value were his gun, rolls of caps, and the chip. Though strangely heavy, it just looked like white plastic.

Shrugging, she tucked the chip into her bra and the rolls of caps into her pockets. She emptied the magazine of his gun and tossed it onto the bed next to Benny. It only seemed right to let the man who had gotten the best of her die with his weapon. So she closed the bedroom door behind her, cutting off the sound of his keening wheezes.

Unsure of what to do for twenty minutes, she sat on the couch. It felt strange, to sit still. Last time… last time she had run like a bat out of hell. And it had been hell.

* * *

 

Even now, she wasn’t sure if it had begun as an escape plan or acceptance. But it had been clear on some fucked up level that Vulpes had wanted her happy, or at least neutralized. It had become clear after she tried to off herself with a frying pan and only holding on for the kids she looked after. Shortly following his realization, the contraceptives had disappeared. She had been so raw at the time, it was hard to say why she did what she had done. But she remembered perfectly fine the day she had.

He had come ‘home’ to her blankly staring at the wall. He kissed her cheek hello, as he always did, but this time she didn’t flinch or shy away or fight it at all, just kept staring.

“Abigail? You in there?” he had asked, cold hand resting on her shoulder.

“No,” she had whispered.

Another long look leveled her way. “How about you go to bed, and we’ll see what I can do for you in the morning?” He had almost sounded normal. Almost like how her father had talked to her mother.

She had looked at him, then. He had almost looked… concerned. Maybe because she had broken herself before he had gotten the chance to. Maybe, just maybe, a desperate part of her thought, it had all been a front. A way to throw off his comrades. But after months of hell incarnate, she had taken what kindness she could get. She didn’t care why he cared, if it was honest, only that he seemed to.

So she had stripped herself freely of the long, dark gray gown of an officer’s wife and crawled into bed.

He followed not long after, folding himself behind her. She didn’t care enough to move away. Didn’t care about anything, as long as she didn’t hurt.

“You know I only ever hurt you for your benefit, right?” he had murmured in the dark. “You see these women. They can’t survive. They don’t. Not like you. My fighter, my Abigail.”

When they woke with the sun, he had taken his pleasure. She had let him. Hell, she had learned to enjoy it, with time, to invite him in. In return, he’d treated her well.

She wasn’t sure why she asked for the date. _A place away from the Legion, just for a few hours,_ she had begged him. He was always saying that if the world was different, that if the Legion wasn’t their only hope for peace, things would have been different. He could have been kinder. She didn’t believe him, but she’d willingly swallowed the lie for comfort.

She didn’t know how she had gotten around to it, but she’d strangled to him on that so-called date with the intention of killing him. Maybe she had been lying to herself the whole time in order to survive her charade. Maybe it was just her soul that had stayed the same. She liked to say she did it on purpose, just blocked out the truth to be a better liar. The truth was, she didn’t know. The only thing she did know was she would die, now, to keep her freedom, to stay away from his maybe-lies. To stay away from him.

* * *

 

This time, she reminded herself, she was a weapon, not a Stockholm Syndrome spokesperson. This time she was sure.

After twenty minutes had passed according to the clock on the wall, she walked back to the elevator, all sorts of false _I-just-got-laid_ smug. The guards didn’t suspect a thing.

It was aces until she was striding towards the door, Boone on a merging path to her right. She wasn’t sure why, but she looked to her left.

Cold blue eyes watched her cross the room. He wore a clean tux and a red tie, the color dripping from his throat like it had been slit. The hood had been replaced with a pin on his lapel in the shape of a wolf’s head, beneath it a pin marking Caesar’s favor.

He smiled, a chilling thing with too many white teeth, a wolf in the shape of a man. Long, bony fingers waved a little.

Sloan shoved out of the doors, blood rushing through her ears in a deafening roar. The second Boone emerged from the Tops after her, she grabbed his hand- warm, larger than hers by far- and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know what you're thinking. Where are Benny's cringey lines? Where is his redemption arc? The tags say redemption arc! Well, my friends, I did say ALMOST murder. Everything will make sense with time.  
> On the subject of the future, there are some very, very subtle parallels and some foreshadowing you'll kick yourself over later. Much, much later.


	12. Devil's Whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little wary of this chapter, so let me know what you think of it. To be fair, I used my own experience and did some research on how exactly this might play out. 
> 
> Angst ahoy!

_ You better run from the devil _

_ You better run from the devil _

_ You better run from the devil _

_ You better run from the devil _

_ Won’t act like I’m any better, you or me, I am you _

Raury

 

When the Freeside gate finally shut behind them with a clang, Boone jerked her to a stop. “ _ Stop,” _ he demanded. “Tell me what’s going on.” His hand still locked around hers, she was forced to a halt.

Unwilling to let him go just yet, she tried to yank him onwards. “Not here,” she hissed, glancing back at the gate. Any second, it would open and she would have to run. Run for forever. She wouldn’t make the same mistakes, this time. This time she would hurl herself across the ocean to get off the same country. But right now, she was stuck. “Come  _ on,” _ she pleaded, giving another panicked yank. “We gotta go.  _ Please.” _

The look he levelled at her likely only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. She glanced again at the gate, blood beginning to pound in her ears. Jesus, they were in full view of the gate. If he came out after her, he would see them right away. Sloan looked around nervously. Did he have the rest of his  _ contubernium _ in town? Would they recognize her like he did?

“Okay,” Boone relented at last. He dragged her a ways down the road before slipping them into an alley. They edged down the narrow space until they were hidden in the shadows, almost invisible to any passer by. “Now take a breath and tell me what’s going on,” he said again, taking his sunglasses off in the dark and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. 

How could he be so even tempered? How did he not understand that they had to go  _ now, _ had to flee west while they had the night on their side?

He waited expectantly. Right, she hadn’t told him. She lunged forward to grip at his shirt, getting his full attention. This had worked last time, people responded to a girl half out of her mind with fear. She needed protection, needed help. She wanted to believe in her own two fists, but she knew better by now. Under those eyes, those eyes of Devil’s ice, something vital in her died. Her sense of self preservation, maybe, or perhaps just her dignity.

“He’s  _ hunting _ me,” she whispered frantically, shooting another glance over her shoulder. Any moment, he would appear in the opening of the alley. He knew her better than anyone, knew where she would hide and how to hurt her best. He would laugh at her, laugh at the monster he’d made her into. His perfect little attack bitch, who would self destruct and destroy everything and everyone around her if she tried to escape from under his thumb. 

“I told you. I  _ told  _ you he would find me again!” she cried, trying to keep her voice down, even as she wanted to scream. She had to keep quiet. “He knows what I did in there, and he’s  _ laughing _ at me,” she insisted, quiet again. At the words, the sharp bite of welling tears stung behind her eyes and clenched her throat tight. She had never been  _ free.  _ How fucking naive she had been to believe so. No, she had been let loose for the wolf to hunt down.

Sloan wished for once that Boone had kept his fucking sunglasses on. Instead, she had to watch his seafoam green eyes go cold, calculating, reminiscent of bleached bones in shallow water. A hot hand landed on her bicep, squeezing scorching fingerprints into her skin. “Who?” he asked softly, like he was trying very hard to stay calm. 

She tried to back up a scared step, but the hand on her bicep squeezed harder and caused her to wince. “Boone,” she pleaded in a pathetically small voice.

“Who!” he barked, eyes catching fire as he lost his temper.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was too loud, too angry. This was a different, new kind of fear. Fear of hot fists instead of cold caresses.

She wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Vulpes,” she whispered like the cowed child she felt like.

Then she was watching his back as he walked away, leaving her alone in the dark alley. 

For two whole minutes, for one hundred twenty carefully counted seconds, she waited in fear. Waited for him to come back. He wouldn’t just leave. Right? 

She abruptly remembered that despite the ties that bound them, they had known each other for only a handful of days. Even then, it was Sloan who had let him in after nine years alone. They were not the same.

She should have known better. She should have  _ known _ better than to rely on someone else. It wasn’t a matter of right or wrong or moral alignment. They didn’t need each other’s hearts or loyalty to carry on. He had needed a distraction, and she had wanted company. It was a symbiotic relationship that worked until it didn’t. So if he needed his vengeance and nothing else now, well, who was she to make him stay? 

Distantly, she was aware that she had begun to shake. Her panting heaves had turned to anxious, shallow breaths. He didn’t need her, but she needed him. Needed someone. She had made the mistake of slowing down on her wild dash west. She had made the mistake of breaking down that wall, and now she was starving. Those nights holding herself tight had amounted to a hunger, and now she had made herself vulnerable to it.

On shaking legs, she stumbled out of the alley. The street was still clear of familiar demons, only sad drunks who had indeed lost too much on the Strip, along with the odd Freesider.

Sticking close to the abandoned storefronts, ready to duck into an alley at any hint of trouble. She wasn’t quite sure where she was going, only away. Out of old habit, she looked upwards to the sky. There, even through the pretty light pollution of the Strip. The North Star. 

She would not die with it looking down on her, at least not tonight.

At last, she took a deep, rattling breath. She flushed the tightness of her throat out on a deep exhale, the shaking in her hands subsiding. 

First things first, she needed a safe place to lay low until she could slip back out into the desert. After a day like today, she wouldn’t be able to go far or fast. Better to leave tomorrow afternoon and travel through the night. 

The Atomic Wrangler, she decided, was out. Too many strangers who would sell her out for a few more caps to gamble with. It wouldn’t be the first time. Besides, it was doubtful she could sleep on her own in a place like that, all clamor and drunks. So where did that leave her to go?

As if the universe had heard her question, she heard her name. “Sloan!” Startling, she turned and saw a Kings member jogging over. “You’re Sloan, right?” he asked, coming to a stop.

Sloan frowned. Did the negotiations go south? The gangster didn’t seem upset though, so that couldn’t be it. Hell, he seemed happy, maybe even a little drunk. “Yeah,” she replied warily. “That’s me. What’s going on?”

The man- barely that, he looked young- smiled widely, teeth bright against his dark skin. “The King just finished negotiating with NCR bout an hour ago. Things are looking good, for once. So naturally, we’re throwing a helluva party. King said to let you know, if any of us found you. You dig?”

The Kings. They seemed to be good men, from what Sloan had seen. Loyal. Even Pacer had been… misguided.

Sloan allowed a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, I can dig. So long as there’s alcohol.”

The man snorted. “Of course. I did say it was a party.”

 

It definitely lived up to the title. The front door opened, spilling out golden light and drunken cheers out into the dark. “Sloan!” They cheered, a horde of Kings rushing to envelop her and slap her back, and someone shoved a drink into her hand.

Sloan looked around with a baffled, if cautiously pleased smile. Across the room, she locked gazes with the King, who grinned and raised a glass in her direction. Figuring it was as good a place to go as any, she headed over.

At her approach, he booted the gangster on the couch next to him to make way for her. “Have a seat,” he said in greeting.

She sat down to his left. “I gotta thank you for what you did,” the King began, looking out over his gang. “Without you, I’ll be honest. I don’t think we would be here. We’d likely be mourning, if not razed to the ground.” 

Sloan shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable with the praise. “Yeah. Sure thing.”

The King put his hands up. “I can see you’re not comfortable, but I had to say it once. Anyway, you look nice tonight. Where’s your man?”

Sloan froze, glass halfway to her lips. “What?” she said, but it came out as a strained croak.

“Your NCR man,” he clarified slowly.

“Oh.” Sloan breathed out a shaky sigh. “He’s not mine. He’s gone, actually.”

The King’s head cocked to the side, apparently sensing something not quite right. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, trying to peer up into her face. “You look a bit... rattled.”

Sloan closed her eyes. “I need… can you offer me protection, just for tonight? There’s… someone is looking for me, and I can’t let him find me under any circumstances.”

“Sloan.” She opened her eyes at the gentle hand on her forearm. “After tonight, I would give you anything I had to give. And even if you hadn’t done what you did, I would still offer you protection.” She turned to look at him. His face was remarkably open, expression soft and concerned.

Shoving a hand through her hair, she slumped against the back of the threadbare couch and downed the glass of what tasted like whiskey with a cough. “Thank you. You’re a good man, …” she trailed off, realizing she didn’t know him by anything other than ‘the King.’ “You’re a good man,” she repeated.

The King’s dark blue eyes crinkled in amusement, . “I think you can be trusted with a name at this point, darlin’. My boys know me as James in private company. Friends call me Jamie.”

“Right… Jamie,” she said. “So what are you going to do, now that you’re not at odds with NCR?”

The King-  _ Jamie- _ leaned back on the couch as well. Their arms brushed, but Sloan found herself leaning into the contact instead of flinching away. “Well, I figure I’ll give it a few weeks to make sure this truce holds, but after that, I think I’d like to support the little guys, you know?” His gaze dropped to his knees, like it was a hope he hadn’t uttered out loud before. It wouldn’t be surprising, considering the volatile conditions Freeside had been struggling with. “Help get some farms started so we can support more people. Maybe sign a contract with a caravan, get supplies from farms that aren’t in the desert,” he explained with a little laugh.

“Yeah? That’s pretty ambitious,” she remarked, impressed. 

“Well, being a gang leader in New Vegas ain’t for the unenterprising,” he replied, though his cheeks turned an endearingly faint shade of pink.

At that moment, a King walked up, flushed and down to his slacks and dress shirt. “Hey, Jamie. And you’re Sloan, right? Thanks for that assist, we all owe you a big one.”

Sloan could feel Jamie roll his eyes on her right. “You’re not going to introduce yourself, pal?” he said, tone chastising but fond all the same.

The man stared at him for a long moment before the idea clicked. “Right. Right! I’m Thomas, nice you meet you.” 

The introduction caught the attention of everyone in the immediate area, which turned in to everyone feeling the need to thank her. Eventually she and the King stood up to mingle and drink, some of the Kings pulled aside by the King and others taking it upon themselves to say hello. It was all somewhat embarrassing, being praised over and over again for doing so little, but they wouldn’t hear her protests. In the end, she just smiled stiltedly and said ‘of course’ a lot.

She had been right, she decided later on, the hour somewhere between very, very late and very, very early, still stuck to Jamie like glue. The Kings were good people, not that she could see Jamie taking on assholes, no matter how they needed the numbers. But none of them were handsy or untoward, and didn’t leer like they wanted to do so, seeing as she had kept close to their leader all night.

She couldn’t quite say when, but someone got the idea to push all the tables to the side in the auditorium and play music as loud as they could. Which was how she found herself slow dancing with the King of all people, unconcerned by all the contact going on. He was blissfully neutral, palms not to cold or too hot on her skin, and only naked truth in his demeanor. She had helped him, so he would offer protection. He liked her, he stuck close all night. No agendas, no lies or manipulation. It was one hell of a relief.

Through it all, she stayed carefully sober, choosing to nurse to occasional drink and stay on guard. Her eyes stayed sharp, and her mind stayed clear. It was how, when people started trailing off to bed, she got to thinking.

Vulpes had, even after all these years, maintained something of a monopoly on her body. He was the only one she had ever been with, and as such only had experienced sex as he had forced her to experience.

Maybe, she thought, she would feel less like an owned thing released for the hunt if she started making some choices for herself. If she gave up the fear that came with contact. Maybe then he wouldn’t seem so damnably invulnerable, like an evil god presiding over her life. Maybe in someone else’s arms, she could find herself, could feel safe if only for a night.

So when the King looked as if he was about to excuse himself for the night, she made her decision.

“How much are you willing to give me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do y'all want it in nasty detail or nah  
> edit: y'all getting nasty detail. Should upload tomorrow :)


	13. Grow Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time. For that, you get all the nasty detail.   
> Check out updated tags!!
> 
> Now for long words. You can skip em if you want.  
> The reason I was gone so long was I wasn't sure how I wanted to finish part one. We're barreling towards the end of part one, now, probably about halfway there, maybe less. That being said, I needed to take a step back and just think about where I wanted to go exactly, and how I wanted to do it. That said, I have the rest of part one definitely planned out and I feel confident in what I'm doing. It's been a bit transitory recently, but it's going to be more directed soon.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read this story and support me. It's been dear to my heart for a long time, and I am so, so excited to share it with you, but I didn't want to force it.  
> That said, happy christmas, ya nasties. Nastmas, if you will.

_ Got a light that won’t go out _

_ Been burning since the day I was born _

_ So I cried just a little then I’ll dry my eyes _

_ ‘Cause I ain’t a little girl no more _

_ Some of us have to grow up sometimes _

_ And so, if I have to, I’m gonna leave you behind _

Paramore

 

He knew exactly what she meant,, she could see it in his eyes. But what she saw in his eyes defied years of hard-earned cynicism, of fear. She expected to see lust or maybe victory there. But instead he looked cautious, willing to proceed, but wary to. 

Their slow dancing came to a stop. “Sloan,” he bega, saying her name as if it in itself would give him the sentence he was looking for. “You… You know- you know I’ll give you anything- God knows I want to, trust me- but you… I can tell you’ve had a hard night, and I want to know you want this for the right reasons, that this isn’t some kind of self-destruct mechanism.” His shoulders were tight, but his expression was earnest. As always.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finished, seeming to find solid ground in the statement as his jaw set at a determined angle.

And that, right there, was the reason why he was the only person she could stand to do this with. Because as much as he honestly wanted to do this, wanted her, he would only ever do it the right way for the right reasons. So she gave him a sincere, warm smile. “This is the first time I’ll be doing it for the right reasons.”

That seemed to be good enough, because his stubborn expression broke in to a warm smile. “Then color me honored and awful flattered. You ready for this?” he asked cockily and extended a hand in offering. Once again, he was making this her choice every step of the way.

She returned his smile and put her hand in his. “Of course.” His hand encircled hers, a comforting grip. He pulled it to rest gently in the crook of his arm, and led them towards the stairs in the main room.

A few of the Kings whistled and whooped drunkenly when they saw the two of them headed upstairs together. Sloan ducked her head, some odd shade of shamed. But without prompting, Jamie turned back to his men and barked, “Fuck off and have some class. Jesus.” 

Before he could really go off like she could feel him tensing to do, she squeezed his arm. “C’mon.” He looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to the room to shoot them one more dangerous glare before leading her up the stairs.

A floor up, they came to a stop at a door at the end of the hall. Jamie unlocked it with a key and held the door open wide in invitation. “After you.”

“Why thank you,” she said, brushing past him and into the room. The space was nice, spacious. Big, covered windows lined two walls of the corner bedroom, framing the large bed jutting out from the corner towards the door.

The door clicked shut behind her, prompting her to turn back around. “Nice place,” she commented.

Jamie rested his back against the door leisurely. “It’s a small luxury that I have the luck to afford,” he replied. As if commenting on bedroom instead of… something else was standard fare for one night stands. Which it wasn’t. Probably. God, she was sexually stunted.

“I-” she began, running an anxious hand through her hair. Might as well come clean. He would see everything when her clothes came off anyways. “This is far from my first time. But it wasn’t pretty, before.” She swallowed. “You’ll understand soon enough when I say I was in a bad place. Hell, even.” She hugged her arms, trying to look smaller. Less like something that needed to be broken. “So be patient with me.”

“Sloan.” She looked up from where her gaze had fallen to the floorboards at her name.  _ Her _ name. She watched Jamie walk slowly forward, palms up as if to assure her he was harmless. No one was harmless, but she trusted him enough not to hurt her. “It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about me- I’m too busy worrying about you,” he said with a chuckle. “You just tell me if you want to stop. No matter where we’re at, you give the word and we stop. Okay?” Fuck, those earnest eyes. How could she not love him just a little bit? The thought was a little terrifying. But then again, it was just for tonight. She could let herself feel something tonight, because she was here today and but would be gone tomorrow.

“Okay,” Sloan agreed. 

Jamie smiled. “You’re an amazing woman, you know that?”

Crossing her arms, she smirked. “You say that to all the girls?”

His blue eyes twinkled with mirth, the lines around his eyes scrunching. “Just the ones who save my ass in a single afternoon.” 

She laughed. “Yeah? Well if this is foreplay, I like where it’s headed.” 

“Oh, you’ll like it more when I’m not just waxing poetic,” he said with a wink.

Sloan whistled. “Awful confident, aren’t we?”  
Jamie shrugged. “It’s either awful confident or awful sex. Confidence is key,” he said sagely. 

“Well then by all means, keep going,” she replied, spreading her arms in a  _ hit me with it _ motion.

Another shrug from Jamie. “I would, but I’m too distracted by this beautiful woman I met. Tall, blonde, could kick my ass. You know her? But I figure I should show, not tell.” He stepped closer and into her space to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. “Now can I kiss you, or do we have to small talk some more?”

Sloan smiled and opened her mouth to make a witty retort, but stopped. Shrugged and closed her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she slipped herself into the circle of his arms, sliding her hands up his chest. “Show me what you got,” she breathed.

His hands finally settled on either side of her jaw, cupping her face. “Mm, that was the plan,” he replied, breath warm on her face. He still smelled faintly of bourbon. Then his lips brushed hers in a soft kiss. 

Warm. He was so  _ warm. _ It made her want to curl up into him, to pull him closer until they didn’t know whose body was whose.

“Oh fuck, that’s nice,” she murmured. 

Jamie chuckled softly, barely a breath of air. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Sloan snorted  _ very  _ attractively. “Shut up and kiss me some more.” She gripped the lapels of his jacket, leaning into that delicious, not quite enough warmth . He sucked gently on her bottom lip, mouth soft and wet.

In those months in the Legion camp, when she had give herself up or over, she had kissed Vulpes. But he had always been oddly hard, as if the act of a kiss was a submission. Something that was won, not given. Besides that, it had always been been brief and nothing but a lead up to sex. Sometimes, it was a forced thing done in victory, as he once again claimed ownership from the inside out as he came, her tattooed arm clenched in a death grip.

But Jamie… Jamie kissed like it was the main event. Like he could just kiss her all night and he would be satisfied. It made her want to see what else he had in store for her.

Sliding her hands to the back of his neck, she gripped his hair to pull him into a deeper kiss. Her body bowed in towards his as she let her tongue follow the seam of his lips. His mouth parted on a soft moan, and his hands attempted to pull her closer. 

Instead, she pulled back, smiling when he tried to follow. “Now might be a good time to take this to a horizontal surface, Jamie.”

“Mm, good idea. Now how about you let me kiss you about it?” he joked. She felt his smile when he ducked to kiss her again. This time, he guided her backwards in small steps until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, kissing her all the while. When she could go no further, he spun in place so he could sink down onto the bed. 

Sloan let herself be pulled down onto his lap, straddling his his. “Hiya,” he laughed, face a few bare inches from hers and hands on her waist. 

She pressed her forehead to his. “Hiya.”

“We still good to go?” he asked, pulling back to press a kiss to the underside of her chin.

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Yep.” 

A kiss to the bolt of her jaw. “How ‘bout now?”

“Mhmm,” she affirmed, closing her eyes under his ministrations.

Another kiss to the corner of her eye this time, making her giggle and shy away. “Now?”

“Yep.”

“Oh good,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her upper lip before kissing a line over her chin and down her neck. At the first nip on the thin skin of her neck, she startled a bit. His tongue laved over the spot in apology, murmuring a soft  _ sorry _ as he did so.

“No, no,” she assured, smoothing down his hair where she had accidently yanked it. “I… liked it. Just… start off easy.” It almost felt dirty, to like something a man did.

He gave her a quick kiss behind her ear in affirmation. “Sure thing. Thanks for telling me.” The words had the small amount of anxiety that had begun to build ease. He was good, good for her. 

Then his attention was back on her neck, gently working on a mark at the base of her throat. It was an impermanent mark, made out of affection rather than possessiveness. Meant to be nothing but a reminder of their time together instead of a claim. So she let it happen, let him kiss and suck at it until it had no choice but to bruise. This time when his teeth carefully grazed the skin there, Sloan let out a soft sigh. Yeah, it was safe to say she liked that. 

“Mm, that’s much better,” he murmured at the sound.

Sloan rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Shut up and get back to work.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

For her part, she started pulling his jacket down his arms. He let go of her waist to shrug it off, his hands reattaching on her leather jacket to return the favor.

This was it. The moment that decided if she could follow through on this. To her surprise, she found herself not at all inclined to stop. 

Jamie’s hands brushed along her collar before gently pulling the lapels away from her chest and down her arms. When she let go of him to let it slide off her arms, she felt as if she were letting go of some rope holding her above her reservations. But instead of falling into the fire, the jacket slid to the ground with no fanfare except a rustle, leaving her arms bare.

It was odd. As long as she didn’t look at her left forearm, they were just… arms, as ridiculous as it seemed. Pale, flecked with scars, but undoubtedly hers. Almost just the same as she had left them.

In a burst of courage, she took one of Jamie’s hands and rested it over the tattoo. Reclaiming the skin there. Watched, as he glanced down at his hand, only to turn still as death, breath caught in his throat. 

“Oh,” he said at last. And what else was there to say?

She quirked a smile at him, though it was slightly sad. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s been a long time since… that.”

His free hand came up to cup her cheek, but hovered for a second as if scared to touch her before settling on her skin. “Okay,” he said softly. “Guess it just means I gotta bring my A-game, huh?”

“Preferably. Now, don’t look so dour. You’re about to get laid.” She grinned, rolling her hips to remind his body just what they were up to.

It had the desired effect as he threw his head back on a laugh. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he said, eyes twinkling as he raised her left hand to press a kiss to her palm.

“Mm, wouldn’t hurt to hear it again,” she replied coyly. 

He smiled into her palm. “Of course. I’ll show you just what I mean.” With that, he started kissing up her wrist and arm, right over the tattoo as if it weren’t a brand of ownership. As if he were fighting the mark’s power over her for her freedom.

Come hell or the morning after she loved him that moment. 

He pressed kiss after kiss up her arm until he reached her collarbone. By then, Sloan had come to the conclusion it was high time she returned the favor.

Pulling him up by his chin, she kissed him deeply, unspoken thank you for everything.Then she continued down the column of his throat just as he had done, adding the whisper of teeth when he groaned at the sensation. But for her part, she set her hands to the task of unbuttoning his dress shirt, kissing down his chest at every bare inch she uncovered.

When she couldn’t reach any farther from her place in his lap, she pushed him down onto the mattress. As the last button came undone and she yanked it from his pants, Jamie gripped her by her hips to roll them over. Kneeling over her hips, he peeled off his shirt.

Despite his tanned face and hands, his chest was pale from its days hidden away, apart from the dark hair there. His hips rolled down into hers, the hardness there sparking delightfully dirty friction. She looked up into his face, attempting to anchor herself to the present at the sensation. His face was slightly flushed, blue eyes hooded with lust and gleaming with something like awe. Yes, this was definitely different.

Sloan wriggled out from underneath him to move up on the bed. Settling back against the pillows, she gestured him to follow. He obediently crawled forward, this time edging slowly into the V of her legs, running hi8s hands along her skin, like you did to a horse to let it know where you were.

As soon as he was close enough, she yanked him down into a searing kiss. All quips and conversation was left behind in favor of excitedly ripping away layers, trying desperately to get ever closer until there was nothing between them. 

Something about this time was so different at its very core, at the nature of it. It wasn’t even sex, not as she had known it. It felt special. Maybe it wasn’t making love, but it certainly wasn’t a hard fuck.

So when Jamie looked to her for the go ahead, poised at her entrance, she nodded frantically and pulled him close. 

He pushed in slowly, scanning her face as he did so for a sign that she would back out. But when he had bottomed out, holding still as she adjusted she gave him a reassuring grin and a nod.

He quirked her a grin in return and eased out in a slow drag until only the head lingered inside, then pushed back in. He quickly found a steady, if slightly frustrating rhythm, ever so steadily pushing her higher and higher.

“C’mon, c’mon, fucking  _ give it to me _ ,” she growled, pushing back hard against his thrusts until he picked up his pace. Much to her pleasure, he responded and what had started off as slowly and steady quickly built between them to become frantic. The obscene slap on skin on skin filled the room,, echoed by their fast breathing and loud moans.

“Jamie- fuck,  _ fuck- _ ” she groaned, hands slipping across the sweat slicked skin of his back. “I’m gonna-”

The hand that wasn’t braced against the creaking mattress to avoid mashing her squeezed her thigh, a grounding pressure as she flew higher and higher. “Sloan-” he managed, her name trailing off into a loud moan.

It was the sound of her name that pushed her over the edge. With a wail, that building pressure exploded into blinding, white hot ecstasy as she came harder than she ever had before.

Distantly, she was aware of Jamie coming as well, pounding through his own orgasm. 

Sighing heavily, Sloan melted into the mattress. Jamie pulled out and rolled off of her, all but collapsing onto his back beside her, still panting.

A few minutes passed in silence as they lay there, recovering. “That was awesome, by the way,” Sloan said at last.

Jamie huffed a laugh, turning his head to look at her. “Yeah?”

Sloan rolled onto her side, snuggling up to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “ _ Yeah, _ ” Sloan mocked in a poor imitation of his voice. Playfully punching him in the ribs, she said, “We both know it was, asshole.”

Jamie smiled. “Yeah, I guess I was pretty fantastic.” Sloan rolled her eyes even as she smiled, rolling back off him and away.

“Fine then, I guess you can nurse your flaccid dick by yourself then, too,” she teased.

“Wait, no!” Jamie protested, laughing and pulling her back into his side. Smiling down at her, he pressed a kiss to her lips. “Mm. I guess you were pretty fantastic yourself,” he murmured against her lips.

Sloan scoffed and pinched his ass, eliciting a yelp from him. “You bet your dick I was. Now go to sleep. I’m tired and you’re annoying.”

He gave her a wounded look. “I’m hurt, Sloan!” he exclaimed, hand trailing along her shoulder.

“Mm, good,” she grunted. Closing her eyes and snuggling down, she wriggled a hand between them to gently rub the inside of his thigh, brushing aforementioned dick as she did so.

A long moment went by, quiet. “Will you be here in the morning?” Jamie asked softly. 

Sloan hummed her assent, his hand still trailing lightly along the curve of her shoulder. 

“Good.”

 

_ She had been about to lose her mind. _ It had been two days since she had escaped that Legion hell, and an indeterminate amount of time since she had let Vulpes corrupt her mind. Everything had been a haze until two days ago, his unsuspecting throat a light in the dark. It had been something of a miracle to regain her mind long enough to take her chance and try to break free. And now that she had her mind back, she was terrified to lose it.

She knew it would come to this, if she broke free, the day the contraceptives stopped coming. Had always hoped to find herself in some form of the backwater barely-doctor’s house.

What she didn’t expect was her own heart. It ached and cried about letting this little life go. It had done nothing wrong but have a father.

But she knew logically that this child would eventually kill her. And even if it didn’t, she would never be able to love it the way a child deserved to be loved. In the end, she knew she loved kids too much to be able to see it come into the world only to be handed off like an old shirt. She would die slowly, going insane, until she took herself out of the picture.

So as soon as she had had enough of a lead on the Legion search party she knew pursued her, she had gone to the first person with an inkling of what they were doing before she could overthink it. After the fact, she had fallen asleep, exhausted. And then woke up to Canyon Runner’s smug face. Behind him, the so-called doctor clutched a slip of paper and a bag of caps, a sight she had seen once before on the worst night of her life. A receipt.

“Time to go back to the kennel, bitch.”

 

Sloan jolted awake, startling to a sitting position and panting. Where was she? Why was she naked?

“Mmf?” Jamie mumbled from her side, rolling from his stomach and only his back to crack open an eye. “Sloan? Everything okay?”

The sound of her name grounded her a little bit, but she still found herself dazed, as if the word had found her core and rang hollow. 

Was she okay? It had been a long time since she’d had that dream. Though it made sense, she supposed; Boone sort of betraying her, or at least her trust, and… this.

Absently, she traced the dark scar across her abdomen. “I can’t have kids, you know. Thought it would break me. More so, anyways,” she mused absently. It was one scar she had inflicted herself, and on purpose. There had been too many of them, that night. She knew from experience that she would have no real chance. So instead of fighting back pointlessly, she had done that in hopes of holding onto her mind.

“Sloan,” Jamie said softly, but nothing followed. And what was there to say?

“I wasn’t, though,” she said, voice dead. “I was no one, nothing but free.” Sighing heavily, she slumped back onto the mattress. “It’s been nine years. I just want to go back to bed.” Wanted to sleep until she could go back. Back to that nameless person with nothing but the desire to run. Back to the person who hadn’t felt so ridiculously betrayed by a man she had waited for for two whole minutes before running away.

At least she could still do that. Run.

“Can I touch you?” Jamie asked quietly, his voice timid.

Some part of her automatically said no, but why? There was nothing left to break or dirty; it was all desecrated anyways. Besides, he was the one person who wouldn’t lay another mark into her skin or her soul. Not on purpose, at least. Nothing but a hickey and the memory of one night she hadn’t felt so completely broken.

“Yeah, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof


	14. Gun In My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when you go on unannounced hiatus...  
> For real, I started college, got my heart broken, and just been in a bad place. Life's been crazy. But I'm finally in a place where I can handle writing again without sacrificing school, so here it is. Chapter 14.  
> I'm truly very sorry for my absence and the cliffhanger. I should be back to it now, and I'm excited to keep going. Thank you for sticking with me.

_Why did love put a gun in my hand?_

_In my bed, in my head, in my hand_

_Was it for redemption?_

_Was it for revenge?_

_Was it for the bottle?_

_Was it for the ledge?_

Dorothy

 

Boone didn’t believe in ghosts. Or at least, he didn’t use to. He couldn’t. With that many dead on his hands, the only thing he had any right to pray for was the abyss. He couldn’t afford to throw salt over his shoulder every time he looked over it. Didn’t have the time or the sanity, not with his life. So yes, Boone did not believe in ghosts. He believed in himself, in what he could see through a scope, and nothing more.

But now… now he believed in ghosts, or at least one. She was settled in his core. Lingering, tainting the will he relied on. She pervaded his senses, his reality. She was in the corner of his eye as Sloan dragged him out of the Strip. She had been across the table at the Tops if he let the alcohol twist the room. She cried, dress bloody, caked with dirt and hair matted with bits of her own grey matter, at the end of his bed as his sleeping mind held him paralyzed, forcing him to listen to her sob his name. He could swear that those nights he could smell the salt of her tears and the sweet scent of her perfume tinged with the metallic tang of blood.

And now again, she breathed ragged breaths down the back of his neck as Sloan clutched desperately at his shirt, usually stoic eyes welling with tears. “He’s _laughing_ at me!” she cried, tugging on the fabric.

His breath caught in his chest when he felt that old ghost draw away. It left him cold, frost sweeping through his body in a wave that left him rigid and deathly still. His stomach was a pit, a knot of apprehension that was already sickened by what he hadn’t heard yet. It was a desperate bid to stay upright when his hand latched unthinkingly onto her bicep.

“Who?” It came out softly, barely a whisper as his body tensed, coiled and ready to move. To move towards _something_ instead of the languishing in the poison of stagnancy; to pursue after holding still, seething at the horizon.

“Boone,” Sloan pleaded. But he couldn’t hear her anymore. He could only hear months of Carla sobbing at his bed. Instead he saw a ghost, pleading if not for resurrection then vengeance. He looked into Sloan’s eyes, but only saw Carla’s green eyes.

Before he could brace for it, the now-familiar sense that he has been wronged, that he has been horribly slighted by an unfeeling universe, crashed over him all at once. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair that Carla was dead. Wasn’t fair that he had to do what he did. Not fair he couldn’t take it back. Not fair that he had to live without Carla, not fair that she wouldn’t let him die.

She wouldn’t let him go, his one and only ghost. Her screamed pulled him from sleep and into the world of the living, the mirage of her always pulling him forward into the next day. She had instilled in him a sickness that night that he tried to end it, tried to dose himself over edge and into blissful oblivion. It never left, sitting in his gut like a tripwire. It pulled at him when he eyed the blades too long or poured too many pills into his palm. She didn’t want to let him go, either out of love or revenge or both. It was infuriating. He was caught between alive and dead, always caught, mourning someone who wouldn’t leave him. Wouldn’t let him move on.

And now, now she was calling him on, on to the end. To her end. If only Sloan would give him a goddamn _direction_ , would just say the name out loud. Make it real at last, make it more than a ghost’s insane insistence.

Without conscious thought, his hand tightened on her arm as if he were a man possessed. Maybe he was. “ _Who!_ ” he demanded, begging for release for this hell he had constructed in his own damn head.

“ _Vulpes_.” It was almost a hiss, and yet it was salvation.  _Vulpes_ , a voice echoed in his ear, breath ghosting across his jugular. Vulpes. It was an answer. It was a direction. It was a bastard to fucking kill, and damn if he wasn’t going to shed blood tonight.

The unease, the haunting feeling of being watched that had sat in his gut for months eased, becoming a pull. A need in his very soul to go.

So he went. He could almost see where Carla waited at the mouth of the alley, smiling, a shadow just around the corner.

The tide of the future of culmination roared in his ears and pushed him forward on feet that no longer belonged to him. When he found himself once again at the doors to the Tops, he had no recollection of gathering his stashed weapons, only the dull roar of fury echoing through his head.

It was at long last time. He could feel her waiting for him just inside the doors now, waiting for him to set her free. Set them both free.

The door slammed open with a satisfying _BANG!_ The clamor of the Tops managed to quiet as all eyes glanced towards him and got stuck on the assault rifle in his hands. Boone could see none of them, only the pair of cold blue eyes and the satisfied smile of the Legion bastard who got his wife killed.

The world, for just a moment, fell still. Vulpes, too, seemed to feel this milestone in destiny. He was ready for this moment, had been waiting for it, same as Boone.

Boone took one step, then another, shattering the stillness as he did so, time moving forward once again in a rush. In the distance, someone screamed, the noise bouncing around the open room.

But Vulpes, it seemed, had planned for destiny to come calling for his head. Boone took all of two steps before it all fell apart.

The rifle was suddenly being ripped from his hands. At the same time, he was tackled from either side, the counteracting forces keeping him upright as two bulky legionnaires caught his arms in a tight grip. In all of two steps and perhaps four seconds, he was now at the business end of destiny.

Hired Tops security swarmed around him and his captors, a mob of people forming around him and between him and Vulpes. “I’m so very sorry, sir,” the receptionist was saying to Vulpes, all extravagant hand movements as he frantically tried to assure the Legion guest. “This hardly ever happens. We’ll take care of him, don’t you worry.”

Vulpes’ self-satisfied grin widened as he leaned back leisurely in his booth, completely at ease. “That won’t be necessary. He and I have business to discuss.”

The receptionist stood frozen for a second, unsure if Vulpes was serious. But after a moment of waiting, he waved off the hired guards with an expression of vague confusion.

As the hired hands haltingly cleared out, the legionnaires holding him in place dragged him towards the table and manhandled him into sitting. Which was how he found himself sitting across from the son of a bitch who got his wife killed, unable to do anything about the fact.

Boone gripped the edge of the heavily polished table, if only for something to hold on to that wasn’t Vulpes’ windpipe. “You killed my wife,” he growled.

The smirk was gone from Vulpes’ face now, eyes calculating instead of mirthful and expression carefully structured into neutrality. “I’ve killed a lot of people. You’re going to have to specify.” His voice was monotone, all inflection forced from it.

The edges of Boone’s vision became tinged with red. “Carla Boone from Novac, through a devil’s deal with Jeannie May. She was the only one you took,” he bit out through gritted teeth. How _dare_ he forget the moment Boone’s life was turned upside down. How _dare_ he forget wrenching the love of his life from him.

Vulpes traced the rim of his glass of water. “Ah, yes. I remember,” he said tonelessly. “Though as I recall, that sin is yours to bear.”

“ _Sin?_ ” he roared, pushing to his feet in a rush of fury, only to be shoved back down. “ _Sin?_ ” he repeated on a hiss, leaning across the table. “ _You_ dare to tell me about sin? You’re the devil in this hellhole of a wasteland!”

At his words, the finger tracing his glass halted. Vulpes’ eyes cut to his, sharp with anger. “Yes, sin,” he snarled. “Even I know love is sacred. Which is why it’s so damn ironic that you’ve found Abigail to hold your leash, mutt.”

Whatever words had been on his tongue fell out through his parted mouth as his brain caught on his words. “Abigail?” he said instead, confused. Who the fuck was Abigail?

Vulpes laughed, an amused but hollow sound. “Of course. I’m glad she’s the same manipulative whore she’s always been. Who does she say she is, the stone cold goddess you travel with? What name does she call your salvation?”

Boone frowned, still lost by the abrupt change in events. “You mean Sloan?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Sloan? That’s cute. No, that’s Abigail, the girl who single-handedly saved Caesar’s Legion and blew the coup d'état.”

Everything ground to a stop. “What?” he choked out. Glancing around, none of the other legionnaires seemed perturbed by Vulpes’ words. Boone almost wondered if he had imagined it. But the weight of the words still hung heavy in the air, the impact rippling through his body.

Vulpes pushed a hand through his hair in a surprisingly human gesture. “I don’t blame you. She’s a clever bitch, Abigail. Well, contrary to belief, I’m not a loyal dog at the feet of Caesar like the cowl would suggest. I was inducted into the Legion at nineteen, after my parents were killed. The Legion had just risen to power and prominence, enough so that Caesar was distant in rank. Hard to reach, from where I was.”

Vulpes picked up the butter knife laid out on the table and held it up to eye level, inspecting it. “I did unspeakable things to rise through the ranks. To become trusted,” he explained, voice dead, pressing the dull edge to the pad of his thumb. As if Caesar’s trust was a taint he needed to cut out of him.

“In time, I was given the right to put together a _contubernium_. People carefully chosen, people who thought like me. Who wanted to take Caesar down. Who realized that to thoroughly wreck the Legion beyond repair in one fell swoop, it had to be done from the inside.

“And then one day, I killed the father of a beautiful girl and watched as they beat her mother close to death before dragging her away. And despite her tears, I saw hatred. Such burning, holy hatred. A weapon forged of her ravaged soul. She was like me. So I publicly claimed her as my own.” He pulled his thumb away, only to grip the blade the entire blade, pulling it slowly through his palm as he continued. “She played me. Made me fall in love with her, with her fire. Turns out she didn’t want to see Caesar burn, just me. No, she somehow believed in his cause, but still wanted revenge on me.

“So the night the coup was supposed to happen, she tried to kill me,” he said, jabbing himself angrily in the throat with the knife’s rounded tip. “My _contubernium_ pursued, but could only chase her away so she couldn’t inform the Legion of my treachery. Word got out that I survived, and she’s been on the run ever since. Because the thing is, I’ve been disgraced for being subdued by a slave.”

In a flash, his grip on the knife flipped and he drove it down into the table, force driving the dull blade deep into the wood. “I hold no favor. While I recovered, Lanius took my place as Caesar’s right hand. So until I track that whore down, the Legion will keep tearing a warpath through the West. Hunting her down is one order I’m happy to follow,” he said, letting the knife stand on its own.

Boone stared at the legionnaire in shock. Could he somehow be telling the truth? He was certainly more forthcoming with information than Sloan- Abigail?- was. Come to think of it, she had never said exactly why she hated the Legion, just that Vulpes was on her shit list. And the idea of a sniper who could protect her and wanted to kill any legionaries played into the rampant paranoia that sent a person running for a decade.

“Suppose… suppose I believe you,” Boone said carefully. “Which I’m not saying I do. But suppose I did. What then?”

Vulpes shrugged. “Believe me or not, there’s nothing you can do to me tonight. So you leave. You go back to Abigail and see who you believe. If you decide you believe me-” He reached inside his suit jacket and produced a leather cord string with an engraved slice of copper. “-this is a Mark of Caesar’s favor. You get that lying whore to a Legion camp or near one and flash it. Then they’re on your side. Play your cards right, and you walk away with everything you’ve ever dreamed and can sit back and watch as I destroy the Legion for real this time.” With that, he stood. “I hope we meet again, and that you’re on the right side.” He tossed the necklace across the table. The impression of Caesar looked up at him from the tabletop, the metal gleaming in the light.

“Oh, and one last thing.” Boone looked up at the legionnaire, the man he thought he could hate without a doubt. “She stole something. A white plastic poker chip, but too heavy. She should have looted it from that foolish Chairman’s corpse. Make sure she has it when and if you turn her in. Goodbye, Craig Boone. Maybe between us, we can right a few wrongs.” And then he was gone, black-suited legionnaires trailing behind him.

Boone lingered in the booth for a long time, considering the Mark before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HGHHH sorry again!!!


	15. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I posted the wrong version of this chapter!!! Reread the argument and ignore the first, 2 am version. Please.
> 
> I'm... so sorry... you can kill me after I post a LOT for Christmas. Yeet  
> Happy Holidays to y'all!  
> I hope this chapter maybe kinda makes up for the last three? Good things ahead!!!!

_You need something to justify your soul_

_Everything you’re holding onto falls_

_And the demons all around you waiting_

_For you to sell your soul_

Kari Kimmel

 

Soft yellow light poured in through the windows when Sloan awoke, illuminating the unfamiliar room with a peaceful glow.

Sitting up, mind still groggy from sleep, she glanced around. Clothes were scattered on the floor of the large bed, forgotten. Right.

“Mmf?” Jamie grunted in question from her left, though the noise was muffled by the pillow he was faceplanted in.

“Come again?” she teased with a laugh.

With another muffled grunt, he wound an arm around her waist and pulled her back down. Turning his head to the side, he cracked open his eyes. “I _said_ come back.”

She flopped onto her side, facing him. “So the King is a cuddlemonster, huh?” He stuck his tongue out petulantly and turned back into the pillow. “And an actual five year old. Gotcha.” Wriggling closer into his arms, she poked his face until he looked at her again, eyes twinkling playfully. “Hey,” she greeted softly this time.

“Hey,” he replied.

Grinning a little, she said, “You did pretty good back there, champ.” That earned an amused snort.

His fingers began to trace up and down her arm. “Why thank you. You were too, darlin’.” His eyes were soft as sincere as they looked into hers, holding her gaze as if he had been caught in a place to rest. And somehow, she could look into those blue eyes without looking away. They were gentle, like a baby’s blanket, not cold like ice or dead like razors. And so she found herself just as caught.

“Jamie?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure what she was asking.

“Yeah?” he replied, ready to answer whatever she asked. 

She looked at him, just looked for a long minute. And opened her mouth, only to shock both of them. “Dude, I think your dog is dying.”

He blinked. “What?”

She bit the tip of her tongue. Why the fuck had she gone and said that? “Rex. Your dog.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with the _dog,_ ” he said, rolling his eyes. “That’s some idea of pillowtalk you got, darlin’.”

Sloan closed her eyes, trying to block out her own tactlessness. “Sorry. He’s just… he’s not doing so good, Jamie.”

His sigh was a weary one. “I know. With everything that’s been going on, I just keep telling myself that I’m giving him time to get better on his own. But he’s not.” A pause. “I think something’s really wrong with him, Sloan.” It was a testament to his vulnerability when his voice shook. He was scared of losing Rex.

Sloan’s eyes opened to see his lowered. “I used to have a dog, you know. I miss him. So fucking much.” A finger to his chin, she tilted his head until his gaze once again met hers. “So what do you need me to do?”

 

The clink of cutlery on porcelain and the murmur of voices greeted them as they made their way down the stairs together. The Kings greeted them cheerfully and with a few winks, but thankfully didn’t whoop and holler this time. Sloan found herself grinning at the sense of camaraderie, as if she was one of them. Until.

Always until.

He was leaning against the wall by the door with his arms crossed, removed from the bright cheer of the room. Her duffel sat at his feet. He was here for her.

Boone.

A nasty feeling of betrayal and anger twisted through her. But as quickly as it surged through her, it was replaced by that familiar cold sense of fear, the kind that felt like icy fingers on her spine and breath that smelled like blood on the back of her neck. He had gone to find Vulpes. Sloan had the sick feeling he had found him.

A flesh and blood hand on her lower back startled her back into the present. “Do you need help?” Jamie wasn’t looking at her, but was instead deadly focused on Boone, face etched with danger. Because as sweet as he was to her, he was the King; he had the teeth to back up his bark, and a pack behind him to boot.

“No. I can deal with him, one way or another,” she replied, grim.

He removed his hand. “Alright. But I’m still going to keep an eye on him. Let me know if you require our… services. Nobody here’ll notice if he goes missing.”

No. No one would, except her. “I appreciate it. I’ll be back.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in goodbye and made her way to the empty space radiating from Boone. Unpleasant son of a bitch.

Stopping a few feet from him, she crossed her arms to match his, expectant.

“You lied to me. Abigail.” And just like that, the haze of happiness that clung to her skin fell away, leaving reality once again in blade-sharp lines and deadly edges. Because no matter how far she ran, she could never get away.

Once again, she was in that same old place, up against the wall. “I don’t owe you anything. Least of all a name,” she snarled, a cornered animal. And damn if anyone was going to take anything she wasn’t willing to give.

“I want _answers,_ goddammit!” he barked, stepping closer and right into her face.

Though he opened his mouth to continue his tirade, she didn’t give him the opportunity. “Looks to me like you already have them, fuckass!” she yelled back, shoving him a step back.

In her peripherals, she could see Jamie ushering the Kings into the auditorium, food left on the bar countertop. Good.

Boone’s sunglasses were missing, strangely, so she could see his light green eyes spark like electrified water. “You talk in turnarounds! You’re so fucking vague I’d need a map and a nametag to figure out who I’m even fucking talking to! He was the only one willing to talk to me, so I don’t know what to believe, Sloan, Abigail, who-the fuck-ever!”

“Yeah? And what did that bastard tell you?” she asked coldly. Daring him to have the audacity to retell his lies.

“That _you_ blew the coup he had been plotting to take down the Legion since he was inducted!” He yelled, shoving her in return. “Everything they’ve done since is your _fault!_ ”

“Of course he did,” she scoffed, half to herself. Blame. Everyone wanted someone in reach to blame, to hold accountable for their pain. It was inherent, it wasn't learned. It was human nature; inevitable. And people had always been Vulpes’ favorite tools. So Boone’s blame was an easy blade to wield. Then she was angry all over again, but not at Boone.

“You don’t fucking know him like I do! You can’t see that you’re just another fucking pawn for him to use to get what he wants!” she shouted, beginning to pace the room. She felt manic, like she was desperately reaching out for something that didn’t exist. “That’s how well he plays the damn game! He always, _always_ wins, and he _always_ gets what he wants.” Always.

“And what does he want?” Boone challenged. “What could he _want?_ ” As if it was driving his just as mad.

“His so-called honor back,” she sneered. “I thought, like a goddamn fool, that I had managed to kill him. He would have been disgraced, fallen from favor. See, the difference between us,” she snarled, ripping off her leather jacket like it was a pair of shackles, “was that he was a soldier while I was his _slave!_ ” she screamed, shoving the tattoo in his face, the murder of ink and warped letters carved into her skin. “His personal slave, his fucked up _fucking_ wife!

“Any what sob story did he tell you? That they killed his parents? Likely. He always said the best lie was the truth.” Like all the times he told her that he wished things could be different. “But I’m sure he didn’t tell you that he killed them himself to get into the boy’s club. Huh? Bet he didn’t tell you that!” She shoved him again, but the shock on Boone’s face kept him reeling backwards, taking five steps instead of one. “He got almost everything he wanted from me and everyone else he stepped on in Caesar’s warpath. And if he regretted what he did, we both know well enough that people can be bought,” she added with an ugly laugh. “No, he has everything except Caesar’s favor and power over me. Because if I ever wear his collar again, Vulpes will be Caesar’s right hand man again. And then it will be Vulpes fucking Inculta who’s sitting on the throne when Caesar dies of the time bomb tumor in his fucking head!”

The silence in the short distance between them was deafening. “Caesar has cancer?” Boone asked softly.

Sloan blew out a heavy sigh. “Yes. I heard things. They had a doctor that was fighting it, but it’s aggressive. Word is, he’s not leading the army anymore. Which means the bastard is dead on his feet. Can’t be long now,” she mused.

“But yes. There was a coup. Lanius was next in line after Vulpes, and was willing to kill him to be the one in charge when Caesar kicked it. But don’t believe for a second that it’s about anything but him and his greed for power. That’s when you’re screwed.” She had to believe that it wasn’t a long game. It _wasn’t…_ Right? He was too evil for it to have been a sacrifice for the bigger picture. And yet… and _yet…_

_“If things were different, I could be kinder,” he swore, kneeling at her feet. “But this place, it will break you. So I have to break you first. Those women? When they break, they die. But when you break, you’ll be free. You can be happy. With me. I know things are hard right now. But you can be happy here, if you let yourself. And when this is all over, when we win this war at the nation is at peace, things will be perfect.”_

_He stood to sit next to her on the bed and leaned in until his nose brushed the side of her throat. Abigail stared resolutely at the wall. “I wish this was a different world, Domitia.”_ Domitia- _the be tamed. He had always had a fascination with names. “I wished we had met differently. That you loved me from the start. That I didn’t have to be like this.” His hands closed around her throat and he pushed down into the bed hard enough to make her wheeze through his grip. “But I do. And you will. Eventually.”_

“He’s using you. He uses everyone,” she said at last. Trying to convince herself as much as him. Vulpes was evil, regardless. The ends didn’t justify the means. Well-intentioned evil was still evil. If it was ever well-intentioned. “That’s what he does,” she grit out. “He makes you… makes you believe things. Do things. Makes you wonder if you’re wrong, makes you believe that you can’t trust yourself.”

They regarded each other in silence for a long time. “Okay,” Boone said at last. “Okay. But why. Why lie about a name?” he asked softly, as if to counteract their screaming match.

Abigail. A name. Not her name. Abigail Mahoney was dead. But he was right; he deserves at least some truth. She was the one who gave him someone to follow. And if he had the sneaking suspicion she needed the company? Well, it was nothing he could call her out on. She had said it herself in Boulder City- she had gotten on for a dozen years alone. 

Sloan shrugged. “What’s in a name? It’s a call you answer to. I don’t answer to anyone, so I am called by nothing. Abigail was a dirty name and a wretched girl who died when the slaves sang the Deliverance under their breath, praying to God and the North Star to take me west."

Except that was a lie. She answered, in some corner of her, to the nature of him. And that was why it meant something to hear Abigail off his lips. Sloan was a woman born anew, a rootless, barebacked name with no history except its indifference to being called. the name he had helped give meaning to by spurring her own change. But Abigail was a dead girl, a thing warped by warped men, on roads and in beds and in a scorchhouse. He was calling her broken, called her enslaved when he spoke the name  _Abigail_. He called her a liar in change, a whimpering wife set loose. He called her hollow, unchanged. He said she owed him nothing with that name because she was a disgrace. With it he says he knew not Sloan, but Abigail in armor. 

She was not Abigail. Abigail was dead.  _Sloan_  was free. Sloan was scared and scarred and hard, but now she was changing. She was more than Abigail could be, more than the girl who gave up, gave in. She was vengeance. "My name is Sloan," she said softly. Let him think what he will of her names. That they were all pseudonyms for something entirely different, a different woman with a past she hadn't yet conjured in her daydreams of what could have been. "He doesn't know me. Not anymore. Abigail is dead." She wished she was. She wished that was how it worked.

But she didn't say as much. Instead she continued, "The man we buried was a Legion slave. I buried him in the shade so he could finally rest in a place beyond this hell. The Broken Back Hymn, the one I sang, is a slave’s prayer for holy vengeance, vengeance I will wreak for them. And if you don’t believe that, then there’s nothing I can say to convince you.” She stood there then, laid bare, skin and most of her soul, for him to see. At least he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

“So where are we headed?” he asked quietly, picking up her duffel and holding it out for her.

She slung it over her shoulder. “To see a man about a dog,” she replied, looking toward the auditorium door. Jamie lounged in the doorway, pointedly staring Boone down as he uncocked his pistol.

Before she could take a step, Boone stopped her with a hot, gentle hand to her bare bicep. “I’m sorry.”

She covered her hand with hers. “I know.” She looked up at his face, at the eyes that pleaded, red-rimmed. “It happens, Boone, I know it does. It’s okay.” And it was.

“I’m still sorry.” With a squeeze of affirmance, she let go of his hand.

“So that was fun,” Jamie remarked as she approached.

Sloan rolled her eyes and punched him playfully in the arm. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the beast?”

Jamie gave a sharp whistle, followed by the sound of claws on hardwood. Rex trotted over, tongue lolling happily, though his path meandered a bit, like a drunk’s.

“Your best bet would be to talk to Julie Farkas, you met her. Maybe she’ll like you more’n me,” Jamie said.

Sloan nodded. “Alright. You take care of yourself and these fools okay?” The group of Kings that had clustered around the door to eavesdrop protested loudly at the jibe.

He smiled. “Of course.”

She clapped his arm in goodbye. “I’ll see you. C’mon, Rex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only short because the next bit has to be Boone's POV, and I hate writing POV changes mid chapter
> 
> More coming soon!!! I'm serious this time!!!! It's like 50% done!!!! Many chapters!!!! I promise!!!! Fuck yall im so fucking sorry for being a) a liar b) bad at posting fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck


	16. Short Change Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the wrong version of the last chapter, so please read the not-2 AM version of the screaming match last chapter.
> 
> Big chapter, yay! Look at me, keeping my promises.  
> This chapter focuses a lot on Boone's apathy towards life/ suicide through apathy, so be warned. He's on a better track, I try to show that, but it's a trek to get there. Good things... are ahead.... they're healing I swear......

_ I can’t see where you comin’ from _

_ But I know just what you’re runnin’ from _

_ And what matters ain’t the, who’s the baddest but _

_ The ones who stop you fallin’ from your ladder, baby _

_ And I suffer but I ain’t gonna cut you, ‘cause _

_ This ain’t no place for no hero _

_ This ain’t no place for no better man _

_ To call home _

The Heavy

 

Boone and Rex hung back by the gate of the Mormon Fort and watched as Sloan headed for Julie Farkas. Yet another quest she was on out of the goodness of her heart, no strings attached. Never any strings attached. He couldn’t quite figure how he had ever believed that bastard  _ Vulpes _ over her.  _ “He makes you believe things. Do things.” _ Then again, he could. He had let himself be blinded by his emotions and his own selfish wants.

It struck him, then, that Carla- his Carla, not the ghost fucking with his head- would be ashamed. For walking out on Sloan when she needed him most. Carla was- had been- a hothead and abrasive at best, but she was good. Unafraid of the truth and of telling it loudly, but good. He could practically hear her calling him a selfish dickhead who thinks with his fists instead of his head. She would have told him to  _ sleep on the couch until you figure out why you are such a massive bag of rocks, Craig Boone. _ And knowing her, she would probably become best friends with Sloan in the meantime.

That was the problem with ghosts, he supposed. They were a whisper of who they were, little more than the bitter echo of a bad death and, in this case, his own self-hatred. His Carla, ever the spitfire, would want revenge, yes, but not at any cost. She would be pissed, but she would want him to live. But that was one thing he couldn’t promise, not when that required him to live with himself. With what he had done.

“So much for an afternoon errand,” Sloan grumbled, pulling him from his thoughts. Probably for the best.

“What happened?” he questioned, following a step behind as she pushed through the gate and headed back for the King’s. Rex kept pace with him behind Sloan. He wasn’t quite sure how to take that.

“Nothing,” she said sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Which is exactly the  _ problem. _ They can’t do anything for him, not there.”

Boone frowned and Rex whined, as if the dog understood. “So what are you going to tell the King?”

She shot him a sidelong look. “That I’m going to Jacobstown. I’m not letting the fucking dog  _ die _ , dumbass.” Rex whined. “Sorry, boy. We’ll get you all sorted out.”

Oh. “Oh.”

He could  _ hear _ her roll her eyes. “Yeah,  _ oh. _ You really are a dumbass, sometimes.” He huffed, but let it go. She could really skin a brahmin with the sharp side of her tongue. Which he had learned all too well when she had flayed him alive earlier. A flaying that he not only deserved, but left him reeling. 

Boone knew without even closing his eyes that today would be another nightmare that he couldn’t shake, another memory he would carry forever. Because even with his eyes open, he could still see the warped black letters of  _ VULPES INCULTA _ . They were seared into the back of his retinas. He didn’t need to be dreaming to wish he would wake up.

A Legion slave. A Legion slave to Vulpes. Christ. Sloan had no doubt seen and walked through hell to come out the other side with a brand to show for it. Branded like fucking cattle.  _ Wife _ would be the kindest of terms to what she had likely endured.

He couldn’t imagine what she had survived to make her run for a decade. Didn’t want to. Because whatever she had been through made her run for a decade. It had enough to break his nose for grabbing her when she didn’t expect it. Enough to send her half-out of her mind with fear at a full sprint at the very sight of the man (though  _ man  _ was an overstatement).

There was another image he would never get out of his head: Sloan, gripping onto his shirt, begging with tears in her eyes to run. Sloan, trying to run from him too as he squeezed bruises in the shape of fingerprints into her arm. 

And yet.  _ “It happens, Boone, I know it does. It’s okay.” _ Maybe, if he was a very lucky man for once in his life, she would forgive him for this, too.

“Boone?” Sloan asked, sounding as if she was saying it for the dozenth time. They were standing just outside the King’s, the door swinging shut behind her. “You in there, bud?”

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.

She seemed to know that he was apologizing for more than spacing out. Her sharp, steel blue eyes softened. “I appreciate it, but I told you, Boone. I understand-”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry for being a selfish dickhead who thinks with his fists instead of his head, and for ditching you- fuck,  _ abandoning _ you- when you needed me. I’m a bag of rocks and a dumb fuckass douchecanoe who is going to do a better job of watching your back.” 

Sloan was silent for a moment, regarding him. “Yeah, you are,” she said. “I waited for you in the nasty-ass alley when I was scared out of my mind, waiting for you to come back. You’re a fucking dick. You’re self-centered and selfish and a million other things that make me want to throttle you. But,” she raised a finger, as if to halt an argument he wasn’t going to make. As if he didn’t deserve this. “I get it. I spent my time as a moralless, selfish dick, too. If I had been in your position when my dad got… got killed, I would have ditched your ass too to take a motherfucker out in a bullet blender.” 

She shrugged. “Grief is the worst pain there is, trust me. There is no ten step program to recovery, and no rulebook. We just have to do our best. God knows we’re going to make mistakes. We’re only human, Boone.” Then, to his surprise, she lifted the hem of her shirt a few inches. He was confused, until he saw the dark, ragged scar ripped through the pale skin of her abdomen. “Grief makes the worst of us easy,” she continued, albeit more quietly, and let the fabric drop. “And if that’s the worst of you, I can stand the rest. Even your shit sense of humor,” she added with a small grin.

Suddenly, it made sense. She knew what to expect from him, now. Knew him, knew the worst of him, and thought it was enough to stay. That he was enough of everything else to be forgiven. 

“Thank you.” It came out as a whisper.

One side of her grin quirked up. “You want to hug it out, or are you ready to head out?”

He grinned even as his eyes burned behind his sunglasses. “After you, Sunshine.” 

 

The evening sun beat down on them as they headed northwest at the direction of the map on Sloan’s pipboy, which was tuned into the radio. According to the map, it was about a week-long walk to Jacobstown, past the reaches of the desert and into the forest beyond. 

Sloan hummed merrily, and Rex panted as they made their way down the crumbling remains of the Pre-War road. They had left the Strip a handful of hours ago, and he wasn’t sad to see it go. Along with all the old memories lurking in the shadows, shit had really hit the fan with a splatter. He was happy to leave his shame behind. 

Things seemed to be… okay, now. Sloan was relatively quiet, though he had a feeling that it was just a sort of travel mode; she had travelled alone a long time. That, and they had certainly bared enough of their souls to drive a caravan through. 

All said and done, she seemed pretty happy to be back on the road. After a tense hour or so at the beginning of their trip in which she had kept checking the road behind her every couple minutes, he had finally snapped and told her that if anyone so much as wore a red shirt on the road behind them, he would make their head a carry-on. She had relaxed after that. A pleased a piece of him that she had faith in him. 

When they had first met, Boone remembered wondering how much of their stories were the same. The answer had turned out to be ‘close enough to relate.’ Now it had left him wondering if her end would come as he had been planning his.

It wasn’t a plan, per se, but it was inevitable. He wasn’t in the market for a fast way out. He was just- he didn’t know what he was, just that it wasn’t much. He wanted to fight, wanted to kill Caesar and every monster that followed him. But when he went into the fray, it was with apathy. He would throw himself in with no regard as to whether he would come back out. Sure, he would fight like hell to take as many as possible with him, but one of these times he would surely go.

But now, fuck,  _ now _ he had to get it done sooner than later. Because this woman, this frightened prey animal of a hunter, was warming something in him that he thought was dead and gone. For the first time in a long time, he was hoping. Hoping that at the very least, Sloan would get what she wanted at the end of all this. What she deserved, perhaps more than he did: justice in the form of Vulpes’ head on a pike.

But hope was a fickle thing that hadn’t come when he had called. It was a dangerous thing, now, a thing that threatened to derail him. To plot a new course on this one-way road. With every step they took towards Jacobstown, he found himself closer and closer to letting go, to letting himself live to see her satisfied. Maybe he wouldn’t buy in, couldn’t ( _ yet, _ something in him whispered), but the pot just kept getting sweeter and sweeter.

“I can hear you overthinking from here. Stop thinking so goddamned hard, you’ll bust a nut,” Sloan called back to him. 

Boone grimaced. “Why. Why do you have to say it like that?” he asked, looking heavenward. 

She lagged until they were walking side by side, grinning cheekily. “‘Cause it makes you make that face. So. It turns out you actually know more about me than I do you. Which is. Uh. Weird.”

He glanced at her her. “I don’t know that much.”

She pointed at him in that gamehost way she had. “Exactly.”

He knew her well enough by now to know she wasn’t going to let this go. He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Why you insist on making this an interrogation instead of a conversation,” she grunted, petulantly kicking a rock, then almost stumbling over it on her next step.

Boone snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Weather’s nice. It’ll be dark soon. You?”

Sloan made an irritated sound and Boone tried to restrain a grin. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “Smartass. Fine. Beret says First Recon. Tell me about them.”

“Sniper battalion. Picked me out of a NCR firing range. Paid better, so I said okay. ‘Last thing you never see’ was the slogan. Pretty accurate, and so were we.” He shrugged his shoulders and readjusted the strap of his rifle. First Recon was a gateway drug to a spun out night at the bottom of a bottle.

As if she could smell him holding back, she asked, “Then why did you leave?” He could feel her eyes digging into the side of his head. 

He shrugged again, trying to release the sudden tension in his shoulders. “Moved around a lot. I was ready to settle down. Didn’t really want to stay, either. Not…” Oops. Now that she had caught the scent, there would be no escape. “Well, I’m sure you harass it out of me or from some other poor bastard. I didn’t want to stay after Bitter Springs.”

“Bitter Springs?” Odd, how he could hear her frown.

His mouth flattened into a thin, tight line. “It was an NCR post, my last,” he explained tersely. “Just another thing I can’t get out of my head,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What happened?” Oh, he was so screwed. That was her  _ talk to me _ voice. God help him if she set herself to getting answers from him. 

“We won.”  _ I’m not talking about this. _

“That’s all?” she pressed.  _ C’mon. _

“Yes.” It was almost more of a bark than a word with how shortly he said it.  _ No, _ it replied.

There was a minute where he was sure she was going to squeeze him for details, but in the end, she relented. “Do you want to go back?” she asked instead.

“No.”

She shrugged and seemed to let it go. “So my ‘start with the hat’ rule has finally led me astray,” she said with exaggerated sadness. “Bummer. Okay, so how about… some place you want to go?”

His shoulders slumped and he exhaled. He thought about his question. What was something out there he wanted to see? “Uh… North, I guess. See some green and all the fuss about snow.”

Sloan stopped in her tacks, shaking her head in disbelief. “Woah, woah, woah. You haven’t seen snow?”

Boone stopped when it was clear she wouldn’t follow and looked back at her. “Sloan. Look around.” He gestured at the hills of sand and scrub around them. “We’re in the desert. Do you  _ think _ I’ve seen snow?”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. Apparently, through all of his mistakes, he had become trustworthy enough to touch. “Yeah, yeah, sasquatch. I just spent a winter snowed in on a mountain a few years back, so I find it hard to imagine.” 

Walking again, she continued. “Apart from the cold, it’s just incredible. It’ll snow a couple inches overnight and then you wake up. It’s just so bright that you know, and it’s just…” Her face was wistful in remembered wonder, lost in a memory. “With all those trees, you just… I don’t know how to explain it. You realize how big the world is. That it’s big enough, strong enough to carry on in silence without us. And before you break all that white, everything is just so… clean. Pure. I’ll make sure you see it.” The problem was, she almost made him want to live to see it.

 

They pitched a poor excuse for a tent that night, a sad thing that would barely contain the two of them. It was clearly meant for one person, and was to be crammed chock-full of… what was it? Summer squash? Him, anyway, all six-foot-two.

With no walls to shield them and the sun having dipped under the horizon, it was rapidly becoming bitterly cold. “As long as one of us is awake, I think we’re safe to start a fire,” Boone remarked, surveying the dry ditch they had set up camp in. They were about a mile off the road, tucked between rolling hills that gradually became rough cliffs. “With any luck, we’ll have some good embers when we go to sleep.”  
“Sounds good,” Sloan replied. She was sitting cross-legged in the dirt, rummaging through her duffel. “How do you feel about beans?” she asked, stacking her cans of beans in towers of three.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Please,  _ please _ tell me you have something other than beans and ammo in that thing.” 

“Uhhh….” She rummaged around in her bag more.

“Oh my god.”

“Hey, hey, I’m not done looking yet,” she protested. “How about you go find some firewood while I keep looking?” she offered sheepishly. Unbuckling the pipboy from her wrist, she tossed it to him. “Press the dial for a flashlight.”

After about twenty minutes of scrounging the dark by the green light, he returned with a respectable armful of wood. 

“So the votes are in, and we have beans, pork n’ beans, a can of spam, cereal, and a bag of what I think is pepper,” Sloan announced as Boone set to starting a fire. She sniffed the small burlap bag in question and promptly sneezed. “Yeah, pepper.”

Boone snorted a laugh and flopped onto his ass next to her. The fire was licking up the wood he had placed, growing steadily. “I’ll take the spam and pepper as my last meal.”

“Oh, ha ha. We can pick up something else on the way, you big baby,” she retorted, playfully throwing the bag of pepper at him. “Sorry, Rex buddy, beans for you.” Rex whined. “And besides, beans keep well.” 

“Uh-huh,” he replied, snagging the can and pulling the lid off as Sloan stabbed two holes in her bean can with a ridiculously large knife. Which also happened to be the weirdest fucking knife he had ever seen. “The hell kinda knife is that?” he asked somewhat incredulously. 

Sloan glanced up from her beans. “This? I got it off a legionnaire I ganked back in the day. Momento of the great escape.” She set her beans in the edge of the fire pit. “Size matters,” she added, waggling her eyebrows.

“Please never do that again.”

The night turned into a bottle of worst meals they had ever eaten, with Boone winning due to the NCR mess cook’s highly questionable creativity, culminating in mashed potatoes, a radroach, a misread label, and a dishonorable discharge. By the time he was finished, tears of laughter were streaming down Sloan’s face as she clutched her abs.

They talked easily until the fire burned down to embers, at which they called it a day and squished into the tent. It was a tight fit with the two of them shoulder to shoulder on their backs, but they fit. At least this way they didn’t have to have the body heat talk. Rex had taken up residence outside the opening of the tent, already fast asleep. 

Eventually they both stilled, and Boone listened to the sound of Sloan’s breathing. She wasn’t falling asleep. Then again, neither was he.

It was hard to believe all that had happened that day. All they had been through.

“Boone?” Sloan asked eventually, whispering in the small space.

“Yeah?” he murmured back.

A beat of silence. “I want to kill him,” she said softly into the dark, as if it could eat up the reality of this moment. He didn’t need to ask who she meant. He knew. “Trust me, I do. I want to kill for all the shit he did to me, and I want to tear down the beast of a bull that birthed him, that made a bad man into a monster. I want that. But…” He heard her sigh loudly and wearily. “I know it’s crazy, but sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t. If he wasn’t lying. If somehow I’m making a mistake. But that’s what he does to you. To me. So I’m going to try to kill him, I am. At least for what he did to me. And because no matter what he believes or says, the ends don’t justify the means.

“But I- he’s… I wonder, sometimes, if I’ll be the one to die instead. Seems inevitable, really. Because I swear… he’s- fuck, Boone, he’s some fucked up kind of invincible. He’s just… not  _ human. _ In more ways than one. I try to envision what it would be like to see him die, to really kill him for sure this time. To put a bullet or ten between his eyes and see him go from living to very, undeniably dead. But I can’t. I always see the hundred ways I die because he’s a step ahead of me, like always. He’s always laughing at me for thinking-” Her voice broke, as did something inside of him. “-for thinking I had a chance. That this was all somehow part of his plan, that no matter what I did or where I ran, I would always end up back at his feet, right where he wanted me. 

“And what makes me really fucking scared is that at the end, when this road I’m on has nowhere left to go, that he won’t want me dead. That the road always led right back to the beginning, right back to him. And it will start the cycle all over again.”

Her next words were barely audible, only just so due to their proximity. “And there’s no way out of the cycle.”  _ I’ve tried, _ he can hear her add silently.

He stared up into the dark. “I know.” He had tried, too. There were some things that just wouldn’t let you go. “Best we can do is face it, and leave the speculating to the spectators.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But at the end of the day I’m scared.” 

He fumbled in the dark to pat her arm. To his surprise, she didn’t even flinch. “That’s what I’m here for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu with a comment if you think I'm focusing on Sloan too much. This story is about both of them, Boone is just a little more reserved, but yo. tell me how you feel. Boone has a pretty big portion of plot later, but again, lmk.


	17. For What It's Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm yeet  
> more of Boone being apathetic about his life, but Sloan is coming to the rescue!

_For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the hurt_

_I’ll be the first to say I made my own mistakes_

_And behind the lens is a poison picture you paint_

_And let’s not pretend you were ever searching for saints_

Liam Gallagher

 

Though the pipboy had reported a week’s walk, it hadn’t accounted for reality. Noon of the third day found them tired, sore, irritable, and soaked in a ridiculous amount of sweat.

“This sucks,” Sloan complained for the umpteenth time.

“You’ve mentioned that,” Boone replied tiredly, long since done with her whining.

“And I’ll stop saying it when it stops sucking,” she retorted, swiping the sweat from her forehead. Rex whined in agreement, panting heavily. “I know, Rex. This sucks.”

She could feel Boone roll his eyes. “You said Jacobstown wasn’t in the Mojave. How much desert do we have left?”

Sloan groaned, wiping at her face again. “Three days. Trust me, I’ve checked.” She sighed. “With your gigantor body, the last time I had a good night’s sleep in a bed when I was shot in the head.” She didn’t mention her night at the King’s. “I’m calling timeout, dude. Next town we come across, we stay.”

“And get something other than Pre-War beans?” Boone asked hopefully.

It was Sloan’s turn to roll her eyes, though she could admit that she was secretly getting sick of them, too. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” She wasn’t about to lose the man over some beans. Rex gave a happy yap and trotted a little faster.

 

The sun was dipping close to the horizon when they found the tiny town, cast in burning shades of orange and promising rest. Somehow even Rex managed a sigh of relief.

“I figure we stay here tonight, head out noonish tomorrow,” Sloan mused aloud. It had been a whirlwind of a week; she could do to slow down for a day.

They picked up supplies first, the trader thrilled to see travelers with caps to spend. Didn’t mean the prices weren’t ridiculously high, though. No sympathy in the Wasteland.

At what seemed like long last, they trudged over to the small saloon, barely more than a shack. The small town had definitely seen better days. Though on second thought, maybe not.

The inside of the saloon was dim, and it took her a moment to adjust. To her right, Boone took his sunglasses off. Not that there was much to see; there was a bar against the far wall, joined by various mismatched stools. Two patrons were seated at opposite ends of the bar, and the bartender looked tired and a little tipsy himself, leaning heavily against the bar.

“Howdy,” he greeted with a slight slur.

“Howdy,” she returned. “Think you can rustle us up something cold? It’s been a long day.” In truth, the trip was turning out to be fairly relaxing, as far as her travels went. The company didn’t hurt either.

It was strange, really. She was meeting new people constantly, living on the road, and yet being on her own in the end left her somewhat lonely. It was nice to be able to speak aloud and be heard. Even to walk in companionable silence, footsteps following hers, was a welcome change.

It was usually simple banter, if they spoke. Sometimes they would reiterate new memories, as if to remind themselves they weren’t alone in the world anymore. She had years of memories stored away: adventures and nightmares, places and people. And for the first time, they weren’t an echo in her head, a solitary timeline that would amount to nothing when she was gone.

It was the effect of an impact, she supposed. To be more than dust in the wind, to affect someone else. To be part of a world, even if it was a small one. A good one, she dared to say. Because for as many memories she had to let free, she had fears she kept locked up. They would linger in the air when she failed to sleep, lurking in shadows and the back of her head. Yet those too were somehow heard. Her breaths resisting the slow rhythm of sleep, he could tell, she knew. A touch or the call of her name brought her back to solid ground. Because at least for now, they were in this together. He had her back.

And for him she would do the same. He had a certain not-quite-there expression that told her when he was thinking too hard. She knew what running a hand along the bars of your mind could do, each beat ringing out in the silence of your head when you were alone. She knew the way the echoes built and built into a cacophony of chaos, the kind of sound that you could hear a malevolent stranger in if you listened hard enough. The kind of sound that drove a person insane. The kind of sound that left her feeling hunted and Boone- well, she didn’t know what was rattling around in his head.

But she would. Because the difference between them was that he wasn’t living for spite. He had lost more than she could imagine. What he had lost, he couldn’t just do his best to forget and run. He was trapped wherever he ran, a piece of him carved out that wasn’t his to fill. And that was one pain Sloan couldn’t imagine. So yeah, she was going to fight his demons for him.

The bartender pushed two beers across the counter, condensation clinging to the glass. “Thanks,” Boone said. Probably relieved it wasn’t sarsaparilla. Rex all but collapsed onto the floor, panting loudly in the background.

Sloan took a swig, savoring the taste of anything that wasn’t warm water from her canteen. She gave a pleased groan, earning a sidelong glance from Boone. Swallowing, she hunched over the bottle and grumbled, “Shut it, sasquatch.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “I didn’t say a word.”

She squinted at him. “I know you were-”

“You First Recon?” a voice interrupted.

The slight smirk on Boone’s face hardened and the spark in his eyes went out. He turned in his seat to view the man who had spoken on his right. “What’s it to you?” he replied, voice monotone.

With his broad shoulders in the way, Sloan had to stand at Boone’s side to see the man who had spoken. He had the dazed but laser focus of a pissed off drunk, and his sights were set on Boone. “You’ve got crimes to answer for,” the man snarled, lurching to his feet.

Rex jumped to his feet, growling, and Sloan glanced at Boone. He didn’t seem fazed or the least bit surprised. As if he was expecting this, somehow.

“Who are you to come calling for blood?” he asked, not bothering to stand.

“Bitter Springs was a massacre,” the man snarled, spit flying. “NCR couldn’t stand that we wouldn’t kiss their boots. Don’t call what happened there anything less than a culling. You, you all- you’re all _murderers!_ ” he cried, caught somewhere between fury and grief.

Sloan’s hand wandered towards her pistol, but Boone stayed as rigid as ever. I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

Any thought she might have had screeched to a halt as she turned to gape at Boone. What?

“Being a Khan became a death sentence. So I left my people, my heritage. But what was there left, really? Everyone I cared about had been slaughtered. We were the Flails of God!” he ranted. “We had earned our title of  _great._ But now?” The man laughed hysterically, reaching for the gun at his hip. “Now I’m gonna kill you and hope life gets a little easier to bear.”

“Sorry,” Sloan said, pulling her pistol free in a flash and cocking it. “I can’t let you do that.” Then she pulled the trigger.

With a piercing _BANG_ in the small saloon, the man toppled to the floor, a bloody hole between his eyes. A part of her distantly remarked that it was probably what she had looked like when Benny had pulled the trigger.

She looked at the bartender and the remaining patron in turn. “Are we going to have a problem?” They shook their heads mutely, eying the body on the floor.

“What was that for?” Boone asked dully.

“ _You,_ ” she snapped, pointing at him with an accusatory finger as she holstered her weapon with her other hand. “He was going to take a shot. And honestly? I didn't think you were going to stop him.”

Boone didn't meet her eyes, instead looking at the body of the man, seeming almost disappointed. “He wasn’t wrong to try.”

For a moment, all Sloan could see was red. “You- you-” she sputtered. “We’re going,” she settled for snarling, and hauled him from his seat by the collar of his shirt. He went listlessly, following her without a fight. “Fucking idiot,” she muttered, and dragged him out the door, Rex trotting after them.

She waited until they were out of earshot- a good distance, for the lashing she was going to give him- before spinning on him and launching a fist into his face for the second time. Rex, the smart dog, hung back.

“The fuck was that!” she yelled as his head snapped to the side from the blow. Distantly, Rex whined.

He took the punch without complaint or even a sound, spitting blood into the sand. “The past.”

“Oh ho ho, the fucking past,” she muttered mockingly. “Well fuck waiting. You’re going to tell me what happened at Bitter Springs,” she ordered, hands on hips. “When someone tries to kill you, it’s officially in my problem. You’re under my jurisdiction, you dumb bastard.”

Straightening, Boone wiped at his mouth and spoke to the ground. “It was war. People got killed. Anyone who takes more than their own life builds up a debt. Then it’s only a matter of time before someone comes collecting. Things just finally caught up with me.”

“So you’re content to just sit back and die?” she yelled, shoving him as if it would wake up his sense of self preservation. “You’re happy to die in some backwater bar, nothing more than an old stain?” she spat. She couldn’t believe this. Take No Shit Boone wasn’t one to just let the world walk all over him.

“And why not Sloan?” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “It was only ever going to play out one way. And it still will. I don’t get any say in the gears of the world, Sloan!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “All I can do is wait for it to come and be _done_ with me.”

That was the thing. He wanted to be done. He wanted out. “If it was that easy, you wouldn’t be running. I know!” she exclaimed, asking for him to deny it. To tell her he had a reason to live.

“I’m running because there’s nowhere else to _go,_ ” he said, voice breaking with his composure, his expression contorting into one of complete agony. “There’s nothing I can _do!_ I can’t go back to NCR after that! I can’t even go _home!_ There’s nowhere to go, Sloan,” he cried, the tears finally falling. Sloan watched in shock and Boone, ever stoic, broke down. “I can’t do anything, can’t fix anything. All I can do is pay this debt. That’s all I can do.”

She stared down at him, seething. “Well I’m sorry to ruin your pity party, but your life isn’t fucking over. What you and him seem to have in common is that people change. People learn. You are not the sum of your faults and failures!” she raged. Hell yeah, she was fucking pissed. For Boone giving up, for the world doing this to him. That she was the only equally sorry bastard around to pull him out.

“A murderer who does good deeds is still a murderer,” Boone said, wiping away the tears, gone as quick as they had come. “And he’ll still get his judgement.”

Sloan rolled her eyes with her whole body and threw her hands up into the air in exasperation. “What does it take?” she asked wildly, beginning to pace. “How many times does the world have to spit in your face before you realize the world isn’t fair? There’s no God! Karma isn’t counting! The best anybody can ever do is learn from their mistakes and keep moving. You don’t get a second chance, Boone!” she said, taking his shoulders and shaking him. “This is all you’ve got! You either die young and miserable or live long enough to be a better man.

“That man was stuck in the past and lost to it. And I may not know you through and through, but I know you well enough to know that you’re too good of a man to lose,” she pleaded, her grip gone from furious to supplicating.

He looked into her eyes, green eyes revealing a man drowning in shallow water and begging for a reason to stand up on his own. “I don’t feel like a good man,” he whispered.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she replied, echoing his own words. One hand pulled his head down into her shoulder in the first hug she’d had since her mother died, her own face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. “Just take my word on this one thing for now, okay? Just until you figure it out for yourself.”

He breathed shakily into her shoulder for a long minute. Finally, he murmured, “Alright.” A moment later, Rex’s wet nose pressed into Boone’s elbow, whining softly.

“See? Even the dog knows,” she murmured, earning a wet laugh.

 

She decided against staying in town. It seemed like a colossally stupid idea after shooting someone in their saloon and leaving the mess.

A few miles of silence left them sufficiently far away from the town and Sloan dead on her feet after the physical and emotional toll of the day. It was a blissful relief to finally set up camp and sit down.

Still, they stayed quiet until a small fire flickered in front of them. Rex had laid down next to where Boone sat, head in his lap. Boone absently stroked the dog’s head.

“You and me,” Sloan began, gazing into the fire without really seeing it. “I think it’s safe to say we’re in this together.” At least for the meantime.

She stayed quiet until at last Boone spoke. “...Yeah.”

“You look out for me,” she continued, poking at the fire with a stick.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“So I’ve got an idea,” she said. “You let me look out for you. You don’t have to talk, not yet. But you should give me a chance to argue with the bastard in your head who’s bringing you down. Its a hell of a thing to be alone with yourself.” She paused. “This isn’t the end of the road.” Though it had come so _so_ close.

“No promises.”

“I’m not asking for promises,” she said with a sharp prod at the fire. “I’m asking for faith. When you have it, let me know. I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

Silence stretched between them. “How old are you, Sloan?”

She finally looked in his direction to find his green eyes boring into hers. “Twenty-seven. Why?”

“You don’t seem twenty-seven. You’re a little too smart, Sunshine,” he replied.

Sloan shrugged and turned back to the fire. “I’ve been around the block a couple times. Had to have learned something.” She sighed heavily. “You know why I’m upset, right?”

“I have an idea,” he answered, a little too sheepish to say it in so many words.

She prodded the fire. “I’m upset because you’re not alone in this. I’m upset because you’re better than a backwater bullet. I’m upset because God help me, I care. You’re supposed to watch my back. Do you understand?” _You can’t watch my back if you’re dead. It will hurt me if you die._

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I understand.”

Just when she thought they were done talking for the night, Boone took a deep breath in before slowly letting it out. “There was a miscommunication. Ended up shooting a lot of Great Khans who probably shouldn’t have been shot. Wounded, women, kids, elderly. They were as close to innocents as Khans come. I put my trust in the brass and followed my orders. Maybe-” he faltered. “Maybe looking back I’d have done things differently, but that’s not how it works. In the field, you hesitate, you or someone you care about will die. They teach you that from day one. So I didn’t hesitate.”

Oh. “I don’t think there was a right choice, Boone,” she murmured.

“Then why does it feel like I made the wrong one?”

“If nothing else, you’ve learned. You know better. And that will have to be enough,” she said. Then, softly, “I take you as you are, Boone.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. A pause. “I take you as you are, Sloan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good stuff mmmm its 6 am


End file.
